


Of Captains and Dragons

by onanotherworld



Series: how soon they fly [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Angst, Courf is a captain, Dragon AU, Dragon!r, Enjy is a captain, Epic Battles, R/Jehan friendship is magic, Temeraire au, What I gotta do to tell you its about dragons, dragon!jehan, dragon!Éponine, especially when they're both dragons, r is a dragon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1339459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kink meme: </p>
<p>Grantaire is Napolean's dragon. After Napolean's death, he refuses another captain... until one day he sees Enjolras (either male or crossdressing-because-military!always-a-woman) and picks Enjolras as his new captain.</p>
<p>Enjolras, a Jacobin revolutionary at heart who is planning on jumping sides when the next uprising happens, suddenly finds him, not with a sympathetic baby!dragon, but with *the Emperor's* dragon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go

Grantaire shuffles his huge wings, trying to get them into a comfortable position, people scurrying out of their way like ants before a boot. The courtyard was busy today, with the sun shining down from an azure sky and a new hatching taking place. It was boring. It had always been dull since Napoleon had died.

He was perfectly within his rights to grieve, and he closed his inner eyelids with more force than was strictly needed. The cobble flaked under his claws as he tightens his grip. His emerald muzzle clenches on an almost-snarl, and he entirely closes his eyes as he tries to deal with the flood of emotions welling inside him.

No, he hadn't always agreed with Napoleon, but he was Grantaire’s Captain, and so he grieved his loss mightily. 

The country had watched with bated breath as the Emperor died. They then turned to Grantaire, they thought he would know what to do, that Napoleon had imparted some wisdom upon him before he had died, but Grantaire had no knowledge to share.

The courtiers floundered for a while, and Grantaire watched, uncaring. 

They found a new leader, one whose name Grantaire had not bothered to remember, and they had thought that he would choose this leader as his Captain. They were wrong.

Grantaire snorts bitterly, and can feel the wary stares from the yard hands rushing busily as they pass. He opens his eyes and glares them into submission. 

Many would-be Captains had come him hopefully, all thinking that they would be the next one to Captain the great Grantaire. No, Grantaire would choose another Captain when the time was right, if it ever was. Another wave of grief threatens to overwhelm him again, so he sits up on his haunches, trying to dispel this melancholia. 

He stretches his massive, dark forest-green wings so that they span from wall to wall of the huge courtyard. He attracts many looks, but when he doesn't speak, they go back to doing what ever they were doing. 

Several hatchlings jump around their new Captains, throughly over-excited, while some small adult Pascal’s Blues and one Fleur-de-Nuit gaze on indulgently, their scales glinting in the sunlight and Captains at their sides. Grantaire has to look away. He arches his neck towards the sun, squinting at its harsh brilliance and doesn't think.

“Who is that big dragon over there?” Chirps a young Flamme-de-Gloire, its hide like rubies over hot coals. Grantaire tips his head towards the young dragon, keeping the pretence of staring at the sun. The elder dragons and the Captains dart a wary glance at him. He thinks about speaking, but doesn't. 

“Hush, Éponine,” says the Captain fondly, and the youngling falls obediently silent, waiting for the Captain to continue. Grantaire listens as well.

“That is Grantaire, the old Emperor’s dragon, the once- pride of the French Air Corps.” The ’once-pride’ irks Grantaire slightly, but not enough for him to do anything. 

“Doesn't he have a Captain now?” Squeaks Éponine , entranced.

“No, he does not want one.”

“That's stupid. Why wouldn't he want a Captain?” The Flamme-de-Gloire rubs her head on the Captain’s thigh lovingly.

“I don't know,” murmurs the Captain, shooting a glance towards Grantaire. The adult dragons look uncomfortable, the scandal of Grantaire not choosing a new Captain still fresh in their minds. 

Grantaire knows he's the subject of many a rumour, but he couldn't care less. 

Sighing, he gives up the act that he's watching the sky. He regards the youngling and Captain steadily, until they noticed him. The human stiffens almost comically, and lets out a shout as his dragon bounds off towards Grantaire, dodging between people and dragons alike. 

Eyeing the dragonet quizzically as she taps his foot energetically, he lowers his head to the hatchling’s height, ignoring the warning glances that flashed between the other dragons and their Captains. He wouldn't hurt the youngling, in fact, he is mildly insulted that they think he'd ever do such a thing. 

“Yes, little one?” Rumbles Grantaire, his deep voice catching the attention of everybody. 

The dragonet, seemingly overcome with shyness after here initial bout of bravery, rubs her snout with her foreleg. Her Captain is still coming at a brisk walk, but seems to be more comfortable knowing that Grantaire is not going to attack her. The adult dragons trade disbelieving glances. 

“Come one, little one, speak,” coaxes Grantaire gently, and the whole courtyard is frozen. He has not spoken in two months. 

“Well... I...” Stammered the little dragon, “I was wondering why you didn't want a Captain, they're great!” She picks up some of her original steam, staring up at his face with great enthusiasm. 

Grantaire considers his answer carefully, he is well aware that they entire courtyard is watching him. “I think it is because I have not found the right person, youngling. Would you not have hatched if this man had not been there among the would-be Captains?” He gestures minutely to the man hurrying to Grantaire, he is only a few metres away. 

“I...I...guess not,” Éponine says shyly, flaring her small wings. Grantaire hums, it sounds like a cascade of boulders, making the ground vibrate.

“Well, then, you have your answer,” the Captain is now waiting respectfully at Grantaire’s right foreleg. “Now, hurrying back to your Captain, hatchling, you need to get to know him, do you not?” He replies, not unkindly. He even goes as far to nudge the dragonet with his large muzzle gently. 

Grantaire watches her go through half-lidded eyes, and thinks idly that she will make a fine dragon one day. 

The young Flamme-de-Gloire rushes to her Captain squealing, “Did you see me talk to Grantaire, Combeferre? Wasn't I brave, and wasn't he nice?”

“Yes, yes Éponine, you were very brave, and he was very patient with you. Please don't run off again though, you almost gave me a heart attack!” He murmurs to her, holding her protectively. Their conversation fades into the distance as they leave the courtyard.

Activity returns to the courtyard slowly, and the elder dragons have their heads together, and they seem to be having some sort of whispered argument. 

Grantaire again pays no heed, and drifts off to sunlight warming his scales, Napoleon leaving his thoughts for the first time since he had died.

***

It is a week later, and a new clutch of eggs is ready to be hatched, and Grantaire is lying drowsing on the cobbles once again, his thoughts on the battles he had fought with Napoleon, and the adrenaline rush that came with them. He pins his limbs and wings tighter to his body in memory.

These thoughts constantly plague Grantaire, leaving him melancholic, and the shadow of a dragon he once was. 

He is disturbed from such thoughts as the unselected prospective Captains surge with frustration from the hatching chambers on one side of the courtyard, stomping and snorting their bad luck. The chosen Captains are still inside the chambers, getting to know their charges.

He opens his eyes to see the wave of humanity that dare not touch him, and bored, he closes his eyes again.

“Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get picked next time!” A young voice says, close on his left in a corner of the courtyard. Grantaire furrows his brows, he knows that voice. A memory tickles from the previous week...

But of course! The little dragonet who was brave enough to speak to him. He opens his left eye curiously. Sure enough, the small Flamme-de-Gloire trying to be reassuring beside her Captain. The man’s back is turned, obscuring the one whom she is speaking to. 

“Éponine is right, Enjolras, you will surely be picked next time, you are a fine Captain.” Comforts the Captain who Grantaire remembers as Combeferre. 

“’Will’ is not ’now’.” Grumbles the other man, pushing past both dragon and Captain. He is beautiful, with shoulder-length curly blond hair, and the bearing and body of a Grecian god. 

Grantaire lifts his head sharply staring at the blond man, people scrutinise him, some stopping in their tracks as they stare at Grantaire, while the blond man, Combeferre and his dragon carry there conversation on, oblivious. He feels a tingling in his belly that he remembers from when he hatched to Napoleon. Could it be? Could this Captain be his? Yes, yes, he had to be.

This was it. A new beginning.

Grantaire suddenly feels invigorated, and lighter, his grief for Napoleon abating somewhat. 

He stretches out his wings, flapping them once, blowing huge winds across the courtyard and everybody whips around and stares in complete disbelief at Grantaire. He couldn't care less. He has found his new Captain.

Getting lithely to his feet, Grantaire walks with solemn majesty towards the blond man, tail twitching from side to side. The courtyard is as silent as the grave.

He moves towards them with an easy grace, and people jump out of his way like water bouncing off oil. All the while, he keeps his gaze fixed on the blond man, Enjolras. Grantaire commits his name to his mind. 

Reaching them, he surveyed Enjolras, and Enjolras stared right back, even if he did look slightly intimidated by Grantaire’s sheer size. This impressed Grantaire. Few people now dared looking him in the eye.

He nods his head down to Enjolras’ height, Grantaire cast his eyes across his face, mere inches apart. 

Combeferre and the dragon Éponine seem to have turned to stone along with the rest of the courtyard, their eyes fixed on the great green dragon, and this tiny, in comparison, human. They have not seen Grantaire act so energetic since Napoleon’s death.

Finding his criteria satisfied, Grantaire nods his head once more minutely, more to himself than anyone else.

“You will not have to worry about getting chosen by a hatchling,” starts Grantaire, still looking directly into Enjolras’ eyes, his voice reverberating throughout the courtyard, and everybody is still frozen as if they were stone. Enjolras’ eyes widen in surprise and shock as he gets the implications of that statement.

“Because, young Captain, I choose you to be mine, if you choose me.” Grantaire allows himself to hope, while also preparing for a rejection, keeping ready his passive expression, in case he needed it.

Combeferre looks like he might faint, and Éponine looks like she might be almost jumping up and down on the to with glee. The courtyard is silent, the whistling of the wind the only sound.

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak. He closes his mouth again seemingly overwhelmed, and Grantaire waits in growing agitation. What is his answer?

Enjrolas looks calculatingly up at Grantaire, before opening his mouth to reply, when a roar sounds off from close to the courtyard, the sounds of muskets being fired not close after.

Everybody whips their head towards the sound, and the hatchlings edge close to their Captains.

A yell pierces the courtyard, “Patron-Minette are attacking!”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the next chapter...  
> Btw battling and blood in this scene, if it squees you

At the words ’Patron-Minette’, the courtyard, barracks and stables beyond burst into frantic movement, and for good reason. They are a gang of thieves that steal valuable dragon eggs to sell them on the black market, often to a gruelling end for the poor beasts, their ’Captains’ running them into the ground. They are powerful, Grantaire remembers an encounter with them, and he has a long white scar on his right hindleg for his trouble.

Yelling and shouting envelop the courtyard, as crews and Captains rush around, trying to make their dragons ready for combat. Grantaire lifts his head from where it was level with Enjolras’. He tips his head up; trying to pinpoint the source of the roaring and musket fire. 

It is in the hatchery. Grantaire’s blood runs cold.

A roar sounds again, this time deeper and more challenging. Without thinking, Grantaire roars an answer, the old adrenaline being to pump round his veins once more. He sees the elder dragons look to him, remembering when he was their leader, and Grantaire nods to them, preparing to take flight. 

Combeferre holds Éponine close to him, and Grantaire calls down to him, “Keep her away from the fighting!” He nods rapidly. Turning his eyes to the panicking courtyard, he booms, “They are in the hatchery! Hurry yourselves!” And the pace increases tenfold, panic becoming more apparent. The dragons tense, the Captains with dragons too young to fight snarl with anger.

A tap on his side brings his attention back to the ground. It is Enjolras, eyes full of steel and fire. 

“Let me ride you!” He shouts, Grantaire hesitates. It is not the done thing, letting your Captain ride you into battle without either a crew or saddle.

“Come on!” Screams Enjolras, and a pained yowl from the nest-guardian, Borne and his Captain, Valjean, makes Grantaire move.

He lowers his foreleg to the ground, growls, “Climb up and hold on tight!” It feels strange to have a human climbing up to his back again, but now is not the time to be wondering over such things, Grantaire shakes his head and snorts, clearing all thoughts but those of the battle ahead. 

“Are you seated?” Says Grantaire over the noise of the courtyard, snapping his wings open.

“Yes!” He can feel a body sitting on the base of his neck, gripping one of his spikes. 

“Are you insane?” Shrieks Combeferre from below, “You two do not have a crew! You could die!”

“Then I suppose I die,” says Grantaire simply, “at least I die defending my home. My life is practically without purpose anyway.”

He can feel Enjolras’ eyes on him, and Combeferre looks chastised.

“Hold on!” Without further ado, Grantaire jumps into the air, flapping his wings powerfully to gain momentum and height quickly, feeling a strain on his chest muscles and lungs already. He is out of practice and fitness, Grantaire thinks, disgusted with himself. As a combat dragon, he should be fit at all times.

The courtyard pauses momentarily, looking up at him, before rushing about once more.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire calls to Enjolras, “First flights are hard to stomach.”

“I am fine!” Seethes Enjolras back, Grantaire snorts once more, disbelievingly.

From their position in the sky, he can see the hatchery, and four dragons against one, a pale lightweight, Bourne, of the nest-guardians, who is limping badly, bright red blood flowing down one foreleg, limiting his speed and range of movement. The rest of the dragons are darkly coloured, attacking the him with the efficiency of rabid wolves ripping apart a deer.

Grantaire roars down at them, they look up, before moving back on their target, quicker this time, and calling for their Captains to hurry up.

“I am going to dive,” says Grantaire, “hold on tightly and keep to my neck, in my stream of air. You will have to tell me if they are about to rip open my wings or tail.”

“I know this!” Enjolras yells, but Grantaire can feel him tightening his hold further with his legs and arms.

Grantaire spins his body so it's facing the ground, his wings rotating in their sockets to keep them parallel to the earth. 

They hang there a moment, then Grantaire pulls his wings to his body, and they plunge towards the ground.  
His eyes track the dragons, and the rate which the earth is moving towards them, he closes his inner eyelid to ward off tears that moisten his eyes.

Seconds away from excavating a large, bloody crater, Grantaire throws his wings out, cupping the air with the wing membranes, and slowing his descent. He roars a challenge to the largest of the dragons, a massive Grand Chevalier, who looks up, showing the white underside of its neck.

Its eyes darken at the challenge. Grantaire looks insolently at it from the air, gliding in circles as if he has all the time in the world.

“Why are you not attacking?” Hisses Enjolras, “You have the height advantage!” 

“Because, I need to get him away from the nest- guard.” Grantaire replies, readying himself, as the Grand Chevalier heaves itself into the air. Enjolras falls silent. Bourne is flagging, his Captain off his back, firing wildly at the remaining three dragons, trying desperately to keep them off the lightweight. 

The Chevalier grabs Grantaire’s attention by snarling at him, “Do you remember me, great one?” The last part sounds sarcastic to Grantaire. 

Grantaire flashes through his memories of Patron-Minette, and recalls a hatchling Grand Chevalier by the name of Montparnasse.

“Montparnasse.” Snarls Grantaire back, flexing his claws, “How dare you attack hatchlings. You are a traitor to your kind,”

With a screech of rage, Montparnasse launches himself through the air at Grantaire, slamming into him with the force of a boulder shot from a catapult. He reels back, scoring his claws against Montparnasse’s shoulder, and the other dragon screams. 

Montparnasse tries to grab the base of his skull in his powerful jaws, and their heads slap together, jaws gnashing. He feels talons cutting his shoulder, he growls in pain but continues to try and fit his jaws around the other dragon’s throat. 

Suddenly, the claws at his shoulder vanish, Montparnasse howls. He hear’s Enjolras yell a war cry. Warmth seeps into him, despite the situation.

Grantaire flips them about keeping the sun on his back, panting, and pushes Montparnasse off, into the ground, where he lies, stunned. Grantaire licks his chops, roaring in victory. 

“Behind you!” Cries Enjolras, and then a small dragon is attached to his back, tearing at his wings, bringing him down. He lands heavily on his side, howling in pain. 

“Enjolras?” He says worriedly, thinking the abrupt movement might have thrown the Captain off.

“I am alright,” calls a voice, shaky sounding, but unhurt. No scent of human blood accompanies the words, Grantaire relaxes, minutely.

The small dragon that brought him down smirks at him, showing pointed teeth, and Grantaire becomes incensed.  
He throws himself on the little dragon in a violent motion, pinning it to the ground with one paw.

More roars sound from above his head and he looks up, and a Fleur-de-Nuit Grantaire knows as Jehan, and four other flies to attack the three other dragons who were moving towards Grantaire and their pinned down companion. He sees the Captains climbing aboard their dragons once more, holding a chest. Grantaire’s throat constricts, but he managed to thunder, “They have eggs! Do not let them escape!” 

Taking advantage of his distraction, the small dragon claws his leg, making Grantaire release him with a startled cry. It darts to its feet, and then to the air, the other three shaking off Jehan and the others, his Captain, Courfeyrac, and crew firing shots at them as they take to the air.

A Petit Chevalier, two Pêcheur-Couronné and one Chasseur Vocifere, who were about to join the fight, wing after Patron-Minette, and Grantaire stares after their receding shapes, panting.

“Come on, we need to go after them!” Shouts Enjolras, and Grantaire twists his neck to look at him.

“What use would that be? I am neither as fast as any of those other dragons, and they are already gone,” he tells Enjolras, the human is leaning forward, looking for all the world that he would take off. He had Montparnasse’s blood in his hair, and his dagger was red. 

“But we can try!” He replies, glaring at Grantaire with a ferocity that only the bravest dragon could match.

“We will not.” Grantaire states firmly. Enjolras is readying himself to argue back when Jehan trots over, crew having jumped off his back, his night-sky blue scales contrasting with the bloody graze he has on one flank. Courfeyrac is beaming at Enjolras and Grantaire, and yells, “Good fight!”

“For what you were there for,” Grantaire grumbles back. They were the only two he bothered to maintain a friendship with after Napoleon had died, they were both good friends and good-natured enough to put up with Grantaire’s melancholia and actually comforted him. Jehan sometimes fell prey to the the depression that stalked Grantaire, and then it fell to Grantaire and Courfeyrac to cheer him with funny poetry and terrible haikus.

“Ha!” Laughs Courfeyrac, “If we had rushed, you wouldn't have had so much fun!”

“If fun is what you call it,” he rubs his snout with one foreleg. 

“Hush, Courfeyrac,” says Jehan fondly, nuzzling Grantaire with his muzzle. He catches sight of Enjolras for the first time.

“Who is this, Grantaire?” Jehan asks, looking like he can barely contain his excitement, gazing at Enjolras. Courfeyrac grins wider, and peers closer to Enjolras. 

“This is Enjolras,” he allows, turning to look at him, he is staring at Courfeyrac with a small smile.

“Enjolras?” Gasps Courfeyrac, “How have you been? I haven't seen you in an age? How are you?”

“Well enough,” Enjolras responds, sheathing his dagger, not before wiping it on his shirt.

Turning back to Jehan, Grantaire can see him arch his long neck, trying to see Enjolras better, greengage eyes narrowing against the daylight.

“Is he, is he your _Captain?_ ” Jehan squeals, jumping around him like a hatchling, while Courfeyrac laughs and holds on to one of his spikes. Their easy-going relationship makes Grantaire ache inside sometimes. He's never had that, not even with Napoleon. He wants that. Their bond is the stuff of Grantaire’s dreams.

Enjolras looks slightly alarmed, he asks Grantaire quietly, “Is he always like that?” 

“Yes.” 

“I am so happy for you!” Jehan bounces back to him, and then tells Enjolras, “You couldn't ask for a better dragon, Enjolras, you really couldn't.” 

Grantaire can sense Enjolras’ skepticism, but he keeps quiet. “I am sure I cannot,” he answers, stiffly, formally.

Scenting discomfort, Grantaire says, “I must depart. I will speak to you later.” 

Jehan frowns, and Courfeyrac looks ready to argue, but the dark blue dragon only says, “Fine, but I will visit you soon if you do not seek me.” Grantaire dips his head in acknowledgement.

He opens his wings, pushing himself into the sky. He flies low over the courtyard, which is still abuzz, and to his clearing.

He lands gentler than last time, settling on his belly to let Enjolras slide off his back. Grantaire rolls his shoulders cracking the joints. The clearing his far, but not to far from the main courtyard, covered in soft grass that is perfect for lying on. 

Enjolras scowled at Grantaire, “Why are we not in the courtyard?” He stands straight, hands folded behind his back, glaring imperiously at Grantaire, looking every inch the Greek god. Grantaire feels as if he does not deserve him to be his Captain.

“I realised,” rumbles Grantaire, “that you did never give me an answer.” He settles his head on the ground, staring unblinkingly at Enjolras.

The young Captain remains silent.

“Well? What is your answer?” Inquires Grantaire, clenching his claws into the earth in muffled agitation. Internally, he is panicking, he wants this young man to be his Captain, and can't even think of him being anyone else’s.

“I do not particularly want Napoleon’s dragon to Captain,” he says slowly, consideringly, and Grantaire inwardly curls up on himself, mourning this Captain that could never be his, “but,” Enjolras continues, and Grantaire perks up, “you are powerful, intelligent, influential and able in combat. You would be an asset to me.” The way he says this, calculatingly, cold, makes Grantaire shrink inside his scales, despite this human not even beng a quarter of his size.

“But your political views, as Napoleon’s dragon, would be differing from my own radically, and, I do not think we would fit as a partnership.” He says this with a curl to his lip, like he would much rather be saying something far worse, but did not dare on Grantaire’s presence, which, he admits, himself being over eight times the size of Enjolras, is probably wise.

“However, I would like to be your Captain officially. In nothing more than name. No bond at all. It would be an asset, and I would be gaining you skills as well. I am willing to do this if you are.”

Grantaire’s heart aches, he would have this man as his Captain, and he would have him in his heart, but Grantaire would not be in Enjolras’. The rejection stung sharply, but he did not show it outwardly. But, he would take this, half- bond, rather than nothing at all. 

“Very well, Enjolras. Have your way, I accept your terms.” 

The man nods quickly once, and turns to go, back as stiff as an iron rod.

“Wait,” rumbles Grantaire, lifting his head up and Enjolras whips back around, blue eyes glowing and hair flying over his shoulder. “Do you have a crew for me?” He asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras returned, “I do.” He considers for a moment. “Give me two days to gather them.”

“Very well,” says Grantaire, dipping his head. The human nods jerkily and practically running out of his clearing.

Grantaire curls in on himself, hiding his head beneath his tail and paws. He won't think.

***

Two days later, two days of avoiding Jehan and Courfeyrac, of company altogether, the scandal of Grantaire choosing another Captain already racing through the land, and on the dot of noon in his clearing, an influx of people enter, waking Grantaire from a light doze. 

Enjolras is in front striding towards Grantaire, “Why are you still asleep, it is noon.” 

“Unlike some, I had nothing to do today.” He answers, observing the people following Enjolras at a rather more sedate pace, peering around. Two are dark skinned, but one has a military style haircut, the other is bald, his head shining in the sun. Two are women, one from a Spanish descent, a curvaceous body and dark hair, the other is pale and beautiful, but they are both strong. The pale woman is Valjean’s daughter, the nest-guardian, she had been around dragons since before she could walk. Grantaire approves of her. The last two men are different, one with auburn hair, and a quietly powerful stride, and the other, with mousey brown hair, and a jolly disposition. Himself and the bald man walk side by side. Last entering is faithful Combeferre, who, Grantaire thinks, may be attached to Enjolras by the hip. Éponine is there too, and she has grown much larger.

She bounds over to Grantaire, “Good day, Grantaire.” 

“Good day to you, Éponine.” He replies, and she smiles, resting her head on his outstretched foreleg. Grantaire lets her. His attention is now focused on Enjolras and his new crew.

“Are these my crew?” Queries Grantaire, examining them. They don't seem to be a bad lot. 

“Yes. This is Bahorel, right wingman,” he points to the dark skinned man with hair, who comes closer and smiles, cracking his bruised knuckles, “Hello,” he says.

“And this is Bossuet, second right wingman,” he points out the dark skinned man with no hair, who comes forward with a grin and nods to Grantaire.

“This is Musichetta, left wingwoman,” he beckons the olive-skinned woman forwards, and smiles warmly, moving with easy grace.

“This is Cosette, second left wingwoman,” he gestures to the pale woman, and Grantaire actually nods his approval at her, and she smiles brightly in return.

“This is Feuilly, tail man,” Enjolras points to the auburn haired man, twisting his body to point, and Feuilly steps forward a shy smile on his face. Grantaire already likes him.

“And this is Joly, the doctor.” Enjolras ends by pointing to the jolly man, who beams and moves forward.

Grantaire observes them a moment, before saying, “Welcome to you all, I hope I can serve you as well as you will serve me.” Enjolras looks at Grantaire with a puzzled look on his face,he must have said something unexpected, but Grantaire did not know what.

“I am Grantaire. But I am sure you know that already.” He arches his neck to stare directly at them.

“Good day, Grantaire,” says Cosette, beaming widely, “we were all waiting for the day you would choose a new Captain, and now it is here!” She claps her hands excitedly, “I cannot wait to fly with you!” 

“I hope I can live up to your expectations, Cosette, I will try.” He lowers his head in humility. 

“Do not worry; I am sure you will,” says Joly, “your prowess is greatly trumpeted around the land, I doubt you could disappoint.”

“Not to mention your fighting abilities!” Cackles Bahorel, rubbing his knuckles. Bossuet knocks into him good-naturedly while the others all groan comically.

“Don't you worry about him,” chuckles Musichetta, “he's obsessed with fighting,”

Grantaire actually laughs, for the first time in too long, and it sounds like an avalanche in the mountains. “Then I think we will get along swimmingly,” he tells Musichetta, who laughs too. 

Feuilly and Joly move closer, to be heard over the rest of the group, to him to ask him some questions, which Grantaire answers readily. All the while, Enjolras is watching Grantaire with a puzzled look of a person who is having their opinions and judgements being made redundant, and Combeferre folds his arms, looks smug and whispers something into Enjolras’ ear.

The conversations continue for a minute or two, Éponine joining in occasionally, before Enjolras claps his hands twice sharply and says, “Let's do some aerial training!” Grantaire nods affirmation, and the rest of the crew look excited.

Grantaire thinks that this will be messy and dangerous, but fun. And God knows he needs more of that.

“Alright, go and get the gear!” Barks Enjolras. They all cheer, and rush off, Enjolras smiles one of his tiny, rare smiles. Enjolras looks to Grantaire, maybe, he thinks, Grantaire will prove him wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMIASDFFGHHJKLL THANK YOU SNOWFLAKES FOR THE KUDOS AND COMMENTS IM SO EXCITED OMIDAYS!! :D
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment and kudos, I take suggestions on this story, *lifts up hands* I don't even know where I'm going with this ;)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for slight violence and blood, if it squees you

Grantaire twisted in the air, twirling his wings close to his body, diving down. He can he Bahorel’s laughter echoing from behind his head on his back. The ground raced towards them, faster and faster. He holds on his course, until Grantaire hears Enjolras shout, “Now!” 

He throws out his wings and flashes his claws into an imaginary enemy, snarling theatrically for more effect, and below them, Éponine squeals with excitement. They’re both watching, but in the days previous the majority of the stables has, but they slowly trickled out until it was just Jehan, Courfeyrac, Éponine and Combeferre. Jehan and Courfeyrac are not here today, they have to train with their crew in some complex aerial manoeuvres that they have both been itching to do; and Grantaire does not begrudge them it.

Combeferre smiles, even claps slowly once or twice, yelling up, “Very nice, sure you're not boasting, Grantaire?” 

The green dragon laughs, “Obviously not enough if you're still coherent!” 

“Come one, Grantaire! Let show them what we’ve been practising!” Bossuet says loudly over the rushing wind, merriment clear in his voice.

They've been out here in the practising field every day for a week, for increasing amounts of time, as Grantaire readjusted to having his tack on, and weight on his back once more. Only in the last two days have they been trying combat moves, earlier than Enjolras would have liked, as he made his displeasure obvious by saying, “Grantaire is out of shape, by carrying us all the complex moves, he might do himself and us an injury,” but the others begged and pleaded, and Grantaire did not mind. Grantaire heard Cosette whispering to Musichetta as they left on the third day, “It’s so nice that Enjolras actually cares about something other than the revolution.” Grantaire did not know what this revolution was, but he did not care. But the first part of the sentence, he snorted bitterly, which he had to cover with a cough, as they turned to look inquiringly at him. He shook his head and laid down once more. They left.

Enjolras did not care about _Grantaire_ , only about his _asset_. That is all Enjolras cares about. Not him. Never him. In the past week, he has not stayed in the clearing as the rest of the crew did, and got to know Grantaire, but walked out immediately, or talked to him for a few minutes about logistics of his tack, or flights. The memory puts a bitter twist to Grantaire’s mouth. The empty part of his mind were the bond would form between himself and Enjolras ached.He is glad of the friends he has found in his crew (or the Les Amis, as they call themselves), but his Captain’s absence from this group grates on him. 

“Pay attention!” Enjolras thumps his fist into the side of Grantaire’s neck, drawing him out of his memories.

“What?” Says Grantaire innocently back, and he can practically hear Enjolras’ eyes rolling. Feuilly shifts low down on his back, and Joly laughs.

“I said: pay attention! Do the swoop manoeuvre!” 

Grantaire rolls his eyes, curving his head back so that Enjolras can see it at the base of his neck. “Fine,”

He prepares for the shallow dive that the movement requires. It's easy; he's practised this move since the day he'd learned how to fly.

Reaching the height he needs, Grantaire folds his wings like a hawk into a shallow dive. He can feel Enjolras readjusting his footing on the base of his neck, and it tickles. Shaking slightly to ward to itchy feeling off, he then lifts his forelegs to grapple with an imaginary enemy, growling. This manoeuvre is so boring he can feel himself falling asleep.

A thought enters his head, and he grins widely. Far below them, Combeferre looks worried, and Éponine is enthralled. 

“Hold on!” Grantaire calls to his crew and Captain, and he feels them tighten their hold immediately.

“Grantaire, what are you do-” Enjolras shouts, but he's cut off as Grantaire goes into one of the most complicated actions he was taught under Napoleon. It's a move that requires Grantaire to twist his body over for a split second, him then flying upwards to gain height before levelling off, as if to dodge a cannonball, and then another action as if to avoid an attacking dragon.

As he twists, he can heard Bahorel’s scream of excitement, and Bossuet yelling, and the others surprised exclamations. Enjolras is remaining silent, and Grantaire feels this does not bode well for him. With an effort, he pulls his body the right way round, then flies straight upwards for the finale, wobbling slightly.

As he levels off, he feels Enjolras pounding the side of his neck, and hears Bahorel laughing ecstatically and Cosette chattering excitedly to Musichetta. “Land!” Enjolras bellows, and Grantaire huffs, but made easy circles as he glided to the ground.

Combeferre tugs Éponine back as they land, and winds blow across the field. As the ground rushes towards him, Grantaire pushes out his legs in readiness to absorb the impact. 

He lands with a thud, running a few paces to dispel his momentum. Grantaire walks to where Combeferre and Éponine are, before laying down to allow his crew to dismount.

They all slide off, and Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Cosette, Feuilly and Musichetta, who come round to his head, talking to him enthusiastically. 

“My God, Grantaire, that was amazing!” Starts Cosette, looking at him in admiration. 

“When can we do it again?” Asks Bahorel, grinning like a shark.

“Give us some more warning next time, eh?” Laughs Bossuet, rubbing a bruise he some how managed to give himself, while Joly fusses around him.

Musichetta grins, “That was so fun! Next time we do aerial combat training, lets do it again!” 

Quite overwhelmed by this rush of support, Grantaire answers Musichetta bemusedly, “Of course we can do it again, it needs to be better executed.” He should not have wobbled on the final turn. That could mean the difference of life and death to his crew and Captain. 

“It was perfectly done, Grantaire, do not worry yourself!” Replies Cosette, looking anxiously at him, “It went fine.” 

“Sadly, I still feel it still needs to be better.” Says Grantaire, and Cosette hits the highest part of his shoulder she can reach. 

“None of that! It could have gone a lot worse.”

Grantaire is about to remark about how it could have gone better too, when Éponine runs over, from where Combeferre is embroiled in a conversation with Enjolras. The latter is forking his hands through is hair angrily, and the former is raising his hands placatingly, obviously trying to calm him down, until Enjolras says something that makes Combeferre’s expression sharpen with anger. This makes the blond step back cautiously, while Combeferre goes red in the face from anger. Grantaire shudders ever so slightly, from the tip of his tail to the base of his skull. What he has seen of Combeferre this past week has labeled him an easy going, calm, wise and gentle. What ever can make him angry, Grantaire really does not want to be a part of it.

He is brought back to himself when Éponine squeals, “That was so cool, Grantaire, I cannot wait until I am old enough to that! I also cannot wait to get my flames,” she adds on the end, looking very serious, “I will be the best combat dragon _ever._ ” 

Grantaire chuckles. He is really starting to become fond of Éponine. Cosette and Musichetta look like they have to hold themselves back from cooing, even Feuilly by his place close next to Grantaire’s left shoulder, smiles a small smile. 

“And I am sure you will, little one.” 

Éponine’s eyes twinkle brightly and she smiles, curling into Grantaire, who watches fondly. 

“Bahorel, Musichetta, Cosette, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, leave!” Shouts Enjolras, looking less angry, and casting nervous looks back at Combeferre, who is tapping his foot, still red in the face. 

“But what about Grantaire’s tack?” Say Joly worriedly, twisting his hands, “He coul-”

“I will be fine, Joly,” says Grantaire to him, stirred that he cares. No one has cared about Grantaire like this in what seemed like an age. 

“But you could get saddle sore, bruises, scale rot, wing rot and not to mention-” the medic lists out possible ailments on his fingers anxiously, staring up at Grantaire. 

“Do not worry yourself, I have had my tack on for longer times than this, I will be fine.” 

“But-” starts Joly.

“Out!” Roars Enjolras, and Éponine jumps at the harshness of his voice, looking up to Grantaire for reassurance. He dips his head to her, and she returns to watching the spectacle.

“You will be fine, yes?” Asks Cosette, laying a hand on his foreleg. He nods in answer. They all scurry out of the clearing, each murmuring something to Grantaire and Éponine in farewell, and Feuilly whispers, “You were great, Grantaire, do not let anyone tell you different.” Grantaire is really beginning to like Feuilly. 

When the field is emptied, apart from himself, Combeferre, Enjolras and Éponine, Enjolras stalks up to Grantaire, Combeferre following behind, although the latter’s anger is focused on Enjolras, rather than him. Grantaire breaths an internal sigh of relief for that.

“I have never seen Combeferre this angry,” says Éponine, wide eyed, “not even when I broke that vase his mother sent him.” Grantaire does not respond to her.

“What were you playing at?” hisses Enjolras, glaring up at him, “You could have killed us all.”

“But I did not.” He replies smoothly, digging his claws into the earth subtly. “I had complete faith in my abilities.” Well, that was a lie, but Enjolras did not need to know that.

“Well you would, wouldn't you.” Sneers Enjolras. 

This takes Grantaire aback. “Excuse me?” 

“You arrogant, idiotic dragon! Your _abilities_ could have got us all killed! You disregarded our safety for showing off!” Snarls Enjolras, and Grantaire is wounded, Éponine curls tighter into him. Having no comeback for this, he lets Enjolras continue.

“You are more of Napoleon than I ever thought! It does not matter that he is dead, for he lives on in you!” From anyone else, this would be a compliment. From Enjolras it seems like the worse insult he can muster. At the words _Napoleon_ and _dead,_ Grantaire stills completely. Enjolras halts in his tirade, still livid, but wary now as well. Combeferre looks like he wants to wring Enjolras’ neck, and at this time, Grantaire does not believe he would stop him.

“Do you know what it is like, losing a Captain?” Grantaire asks, deathly quiet. He continues, not letting Enjolras answer him. “It is like having a limb ripped away without being knocked out. It is like losing part of your soul and mind. It is like the sun and the moon vanish, leaving you in perpetual gloom.” He stares steadily at the two men, Éponine looking at him wide-eyed, and Enjolras’ anger seems to be fading while Combeferre’s seems to be soaring to new heights. 

Enjolras opens his mouth, but Grantaire goes on, “It does not matter that I disagreed with him, or that he did not share many of my views, I lost him, and you could not begin to imagine the pain was in. Am in.” 

The field is silent. 

Then Combeferre bursts out, “How dare you, Enjolras, do you have any idea what that would feel like?” Enjolras turns to him. “No, you would not, would you, you refused to bond with Grantaire because of your morals. They do not even come in to play with this! I have told you and told you that he is not Napoleon, but would you listen? No, you did not, he has not given you any sign that he is, but no, you stubbornly persist with this foolish judgement! You will not bond with a dragon that right now is being twice the man you are! You moan that you do not have a dragon, and yet you have one now that wishes to bond with you and you do not! You are being the height of ungrateful!” Combeferre is ferocious, fists clenched by his sides.

“Get you out of my sight! I cannot think to look at you until I calm down! We are leaving, Éponine!” He stomps off, Éponine jumping up, shooting a hard look at Enjolras before bounding off after Combeferre.

Enjolras stares after them, shellshocked, mouth gaping. The field is silent once more.

“I have never seen him so angry,” murmurs Enjolras, more to himself than to Grantaire, who laughs sourly.

“There are three things all wise men fear; a sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” Grantaire gestures with one claw to the edge of the clearing.

The green dragon’s words seem to jolt Enjolras out of his daze. “I hope our deal is not compromised,” he says, stiff backed. 

Grantaire aches. “No, it is not.” But his voice is heavy. Enjolras ignores it.

“Come to the courtyard.” He says abruptly, “We need to remove your tack.”

Grantaire sighs and lurches to his feet, following Enjolras out of the field and towards the courtyard.

The journey is silent, broken occasionally by the snapping of a stray branch on the trail underneath Grantaire’s foot. 

Suddenly, a yowl of pain pierces the silence. 

Grantaire’s head lifts up, “It is coming from the courtyard.” Grantaire breaks into a run, Enjolras by his side. 

When they reach the courtyard, Grantaire panting from carrying the weight of his tack, they are greeted with a horrible sight.

A vicious-looking massive Chanson-de-Guerre is holding down a lightweight hatchling, who is crying loudly. Dragons, Captains, crew and stable hands are looking on in fury, but they do not seem to be doing anything. The Captaind and crews are holding their dragons back, they are not big enough to attack. But, probably what is holding them back most is a person in an Air Admiral’s uniform, looking satisfied at his dragon pinning down the hatchling. Enjolras catches his breath in anger.

A bright cut on the tiny lightweight’s flank makes Grantaire see red. _He_ is large enough to take on that Chanson-de-Guerre, and damn the consequences.

Paying no heed to his heavy tack, he charges through the watching circle of dragons and humans, and ramming the Chanson-de-Guerre off the little pale lightweight. It is thrown off with a snarl.

Grantaire does not pay any mind to the Chanson-de-Guerre, or the shocked gasps and whispers echoing around the courtyard, but bends down to nudge the diminutive lightweight gently, rumbling comfortingly. 

It is a breed not capable of speech, but responds to Grantaire’s comforting. It mewls and gets up painfully, Grantaire pushing it into the shelter created by his legs, moving one to block the hatchling from further blows as he turns slowly, until he is facing the ring of dragons and humans.

“Quickly,” he says to a stable hand, “take the youngling away.” The stable hand nods frantically, darting between his legs to pick up the semi-conscious hatchling, and rushing in the direction of the infirmary. 

A snarl sounds behind him, and Grantaire whips around, glaring at the Chanson-de-Guerre, and its Captain, the Admiral. 

Grantaire growls back, still unspeakably angry. He looks closer at the Admiral. He recognises him as one of the staunch supporters of Napoleon, now one of the King's, and he was there when Grantaire had hatched.

Admiral Javert.

“Just _what_ do you think you are doing?” Javert snaps furiously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .KSRUHISRHGKRHUKFHKDFG YOU PEOPLE ARE AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU ALL
> 
> (btw all mistakes are my own, I don't have a beta)


	4. Chapter Four

“Just _what_ do you think you’re doing?” Javert snaps furiously.

Grantaire glares at him, “I was saving a hatchling.” It is not smart to challenge an Air Admiral, but anger is pulsing still behind Grantaire’s eyes, making it hard to think of the consequences. He spots the Les Amis across the yard, tensed. The entire courtyard is flicking their eyes back and forth between Javert and Grantaire. 

“That hatchling was breaking the law! It deserved punishment!” The Admiral sneers, face going red, hands in fists by his side. 

“It is young! It did not know what it was doing; it is not intelligent enough yet, what could a hatchling do to deserve such corporal punishment! It is like whipping a babe!” out of the corner of his eye, he sees the hatchling’s Captain hurry off to the infirmary, from where she was being held back by some others, tears streaking unabashedly down her face, anger twisting her expression.

Javert seems unaffected, he shrugs, “It had stolen a loaf of bread from the kitchens. Stealing is against the law, you know.” The Admiral’s eyes flash around the courtyard ferociously.

“No one that young warrants that sentence.” Grantaire replies fiercely, claws scratching the cobbles with a horrible sound like nails over a chalkboard. 

“I agree with Grantaire,” the green dragon looks down in barely contained surprise at Enjolras, he did not expect such an outward show of support from the Captain in anything he did, who has stepped up beside Grantaire. “That was wrong,” he continues vehemently, eyes glittering with anger.

“Well, you would wouldn't you,” jeered the Chanson-de-Guerre in a nasal voice, “you are his _Captain,_ after all.” 

Javert casts his eyes disdainfully over Enjolras, “So you are the brat who Grantaire has picked.” Enjolras puffs up with fury, but Grantaire beats him to the punch, outraged.

“I would not call him that, if I were you, Javert.” Grantaire growls. This time, it is Enjolras who glances up at Grantaire with surprise, and maybe a little thankfulness, thinks Grantaire hopefully. If there’s one thing he can hope for in this whole corrupted world, it is his Captain’s support and bond.

Javert blinks, his hand coming to rest on his dragon, almost absentmindedly, and the whole courtyard waits with bated breath. “You would not attack me, Grantaire, I outrank you in every possible way.” Scoffs Javert, but he does not sound sure. Grantaire is gratified by this response.

“Try me,” he growls threateningly, wings mantling aggressively and the Chanson-de-Guerre snarls back, extending its’ claws. 

Suddenly, Jehan, Courfeyrac, and their crew rushes on the scene, breaking the tension which had been accumulating dangerously. “What happened?” Courfeyrac demands of Grantaire, while Jehan observes the yard intelligently, drawing in a breath at what he finds. Jehan looks to Enjolras, and his eyes turn flinty.  
Grantaire’s heart sinks. Combeferre must have told him about his and Enjolras’ deal. His eyes dart to Grantaire’s, and he gives him a minute nod. 

When Grantaire turns back to Javert, he has regained his composure, his sleek ponytail once again resting on his back, smooth. The Chanson-de-Guerre’s self-confidence seems to ooze from every scale, it is smug. Grantaire wants nothing more in that moment than to wipe that look off its’ face.

“Out!” The Admiral roars at the watching circle of humans and dragons, in much the same way as Enjolras did not an hour earlier. The courtyard clears almost immediately, despite the bulk of the dragons. Jehan and Courfeyrac trail behind, reluctant to leave, until Javert fixes them with a hard look, and then they too leave. The only ones who do not are the Les Amis, still stubbornly staying, Enjolras, Grantaire, and of course Javert and the Chanson-de-Guerre. 

“You leave too,” he says to the Les Amis, who do not budge, and Grantaire is touched by their refusal to go.

“We are Grantaire’s and Enjolras’ crew, sir,” says Bossuet stiffly, looking like he wants to punch the Admiral, and Bahorel is cracking his knuckles menacingly. Grantaire hopes that he will not, for if he does, there will be nothing Grantaire can do, he will be sentenced to death, no trial at all, especially for assaulting a commanding officer.

“Very well,” Javert grinds out, face almost turning purple again. The Chanson-de-Guerre stiffens, glaring at the Les Amis. 

Javert spins abruptly round to address Grantaire and Enjolras, whose eyes are narrowed with alarming intensity. 

“You,” he starts contemptuously, “Are ordered to lead a mission,

“Already?” Murmurs Cosette, and Javert glares at her and continues.

“To stop a Spanish incursion on the southern border, with another five dragons and crews, which I have already told. I would have told you earlier if you had bothered to show up for my arrival,” he glares as if it is a deadly insult. 

“We were training.” Says Grantaire almost disinterested in Javert’s offence. 

“This is by the demand of the king.” He sniffs and continues, “Complete this by any means necessary.” 

The words hang ominously in the air.

“What do you mean, ’by any means necessary’?” Asks Enjolras harshly, trying to keep a polite tone and failing miserably. 

“Are you stupid as well as inexperienced?” The Admiral responds.

Grantaire snarls. Javert steps backwards, and he is viciously pleased by this reaction. 

“It means,” he starts patronisingly, regaining his hold on the conversation, “you can kill them, drive them out, even reason with them, if you must. Do you understand now?” 

“Perfectly, sir,” Enjolras spits out, hatred in his eyes. 

“Who will be travelling with us?” Rumbles Grantaire.

“Captains Courfeyrac, d’Ordance, Grey, de Bayfar and d’Emilme, their dragons and crews.” Grantaire starts in surprise at Courfeyrac’s name. He thought they had been training this morning. Also, Jehan is a Fleur-de-Nuit, he cannot see that well in the daytime, so him being chosen for such a mission is strange, not not unheard of. Grantaire wonders why. “Is it clear?”

Grantaire dips his head.

“Well then, I suggest you leave at your soonest convenience.” Javert’s eyes gleam with loathing, and he begins to stalk off, calling to a stable boy, “You! See to Bevis!” The frightened stable boy walks up to the huge Chanson-de-Guerre, who stares down predatorily. 

“What an unpleasant man,” snorts Grantaire, swinging his head back to Enjolras and the Les Amis. 

“Unpleasant is one word for it,” replies Cosette, mouth puckered like she has just tasted something sour. 

“A bastard is another,” mutters Bahorel. Joly nudges him sharply.

“There are ladies present!” He says, flashing a glance to Cosette and Musichetta. 

“I have heard far worse from you in your time Joly,” giggles Musichetta, and Joly blushes beetroot red, Bossuet laughs, Feuilly smiles and the tension that was caused by Javert is broken, like ice over a lake.

But Grantaire sees Enjolras, close by his left shoulder, still glaring after Javert, with abject hatred in his eyes. “Are you well?” He asks, quietly, leaving the others to their bantering. 

Enjolras is murmuring to himself, “I cannot believe I have to go through with orders from that swine, I cannot believe it, that-” at Grantaire’s words, he jerks out of it, blinking up at him. “Well enough.” He retorts, voice just a shade off sharp.

Enjolras turns to the crew, his back facing Grantaire, ignoring him. This hurts. “Right,” he barks to the Les Amis, who stop their talking immediately, and focus on Enjolras. Grantaire has noticed his voice has this effect, especially on him. “We leave in an hour. Bossuet, Joly, gather supplies and medicines we will need, Bahorel, Feuilly, go and find the crews and dragons, tell them we leave in an hour, Musichetta, Cosette, get the weapons. I will plot a course to the border with Grantaire.” They all scamper off, but Feuilly pauses by his left foreleg, saying, “Someone should tell you that you were brave, Grantaire, you were,”

“Thank you, Feuilly, but I did whatever any decent being should have done.” Grantaire is moved by Feuilly’s words. 

He smiles quietly. “All the same, it was brave.” He walks off. Grantaire stares after him. Grantaire decides he has a special fondness of Feuilly, not because of the compliments, or the praise, but for his easy manner, kindness and muted power. 

Enjolras clears his throat noisily, “I shall go and get the map,” he tells Grantaire, “I will not be long.” He walks briskly off without another word. Grantaire stares after him too, and sighs heavily.

He lies down on the cobbles in the yard, ruminating over the last week and days. He is grateful for the change in the monotony that was his life before Enjolras, but he is deeply saddened by Enjolras’ refusal to properly Captain him. But what did he expect? No one as glorious as Enjolras would touch such a damaged dragon, let alone want to Captain him.

His eyes close. 

A few minutes later, a cough sounds next to his head. Grantaire opens his eyes. He expects to see Enjolras standing there, tapping his feet impatiently, but it is Combeferre, and unusually, Éponine is not beside him.

“Combeferre,” he greets, looking around for Éponine.

“She is in my quarters. She still needs a lot of sleep.” Combeferre replies to Grantaire’s unanswered question, and he nods in acknowledgement.

“What brings you here?” Inquires Grantaire, not unkindly.

“I am here to apologise for my outburst earlier today,” before Grantaire can reassure him that it is fine, Combeferre continues, “no, it is not fine, you should not have had to hear me lose control like that,” the man seems abashed, angry with himself, his usually tidy hair messy and his glasses askew.

“It truly is fine, Combeferre, it is.” 

“Still, I wish to apologise, on my behalf and Enjolras’.” Combeferre says.

Grantaire sighs again. “I accept your apology Combeferre, although I fear I cannot accept the one on the behalf of Enjolras, for he does not mean it in the slightest.”

“It does not mean that it should not be done,” returns Combeferre, his arms folded. 

Grantaire remains silent.

“He is not in his right mind,” persists Combeferre gently, “he is blinded by hatred, and his judgement is foolish. You are not Napoleon, nor him your enemy.”

“It does not change the fact that I was Napoleon’s dragon, just like you cannot change who your mother is.” Grantaire says, licking one of his claws determinedly.

“Yes, but he should see past it, in fact, I know he already does slightly, his judgement will become unclouded with time.”

Grantaire only grunts in response. Combeferre leaves with one last pat to his shoulder.

A few minutes after Combeferre leaves the courtyard, Enjolras strides back to Grantaire, laying the map before them. He looks like he wants to say something, but as Grantaire gazes at him in askance, he shakes his head. 

“Right,” Enjolras begins, tying his hair back with a strip of leather, “let’s plan the route. I think we should aim for here in two days’ time...”

Grantaire mainly lets Enjolras speak, as the courtyard grows busier with the impending departure, dragons finding their way to be tacked up, interjecting an occasional points about finding a shortcut, that had Enjolras huffing and puffing contradicting him in everything. Grantaire is hurt that Enjolras thinks so little of him.

When an hour is up, Grantaire is weighed down with supplies, weapons and food, and the crew is scrambling on to his back. He grunts at the weight. 

“Sorry,” grimaces Bossuet as he climbs Grantaire’s foreleg, “I know this has to be very heavy for you,”

“I will be fine, I have carried far heavier.” He shrugs. Reassured, Bossuet looks happier as he moves to his position on Grantaire’s back.

“Ow!” He yelps not a minute later, and Grantaire scents human blood.

Nostrils flaring, he twists his head back, “Where are you hurt?” He asks Bossuet.

“It’s nothing, I just found a sharp scale, is all,” he holds up his hand, a small cut is visble, dripping red blood.

“Talk to Joly about it,” Grantaire advises, turning around, and he can hear Joly say, “What happened now, Bossuet?”

Looking around the courtyard, he sees Jehan close to him, Courfeyrac already seated, crew saddled, ready for take off. 

Courfeyrac is talking to his second-in-command, Marius, while Jehan is mouthing, “We are going to talk later,” Grantaire knows what it is going to be about, and dreads it. 

Enjolras appears next to Grantaire, climbing agilely to his place at the base of Grantaire’s neck. 

“Get their attention, will you?” Asks Enjolras to Grantaire, and he nods. 

“Attention,” he calls, deep voice booming. The chatter stops, nearly instantaneously. 

Enjolras takes over. “We are leaving now, and we need to cover quite a large amount of ground from now until nightfall. Please,” he addresses the five dragons and crews, “take off, and fly in a V-formation, Grantaire at point, d’Ordance and Amelié on the left back, and Grey and Heron on the right back.” Grantaire absorbs the dragon’s names, he did not know them before, and it makes him feel more inadequate next to Enjolras.

As the affirmations are called across the courtyard, Enjolras leans down and says, “Can you take point, Grantaire?” 

“I suppose I have to,” he answers, shuffling his wings.

They move to the nearest field, Grantaire in the lead, and he is nervous. It is the first time in a long time that he has led anything, and he is worried about messing it up, even if Enjolras does most of it.

He puts the nervousness out of his mind as he opens his wings, he runs to gain momentum, flapping, until his bounces carry him off the ground and into the air, and he pants with the effort. It is not the most elegant way to take off, Grantaire reasons with himself, but it is effective.

Behind him, he can hear Jehan taking off and the others following close, d’Ordance, Amelié, Grey and Heron on the rear.

As they reach a cruising altitude, the ground spread like a patchwork quilt beneath them, Grantaire banks left, southwards, having memorised the map, feeling the air currents change as the others follow him. Enjolras’ eyes are burning into the back of his neck, and Grantaire answers the unsaid question, “I do pay attention sometimes, you know,” he tells Enjolras, who blinks, seemingly surprised. Grantaire huffs.

He opens his mouth, but Grantaire did not give him a chance to respond. “Is everyone all right?” Calls Grantaire above the wind.

“Good.” Calls d’Ordance, and the other Captains shout agreements. Grantaire nods.

Grantaire can feel the crew settle into the large saddle on his back, talking amongst themselves, but Enjolras makes no move to join them, as Grantaire thought he would. The blond man is building up to something, Grantaire can tell, but he has not idea what.

Grantaire ignores this niggling, distracting feeling and focuses on the beats of his wings.

The first few hours of flight pass in a rush of wind, and no talking between the dragons, crew or Captains. Finally, whatever Enjolras was holding back bursts forth, making Grantaire lose his rhythm for a moment. He gains it again, checking that none of the other dragons noticed it. 

“Why did you stop Bevis and Javert from hurting that hatchling, Grantaire?” Queried Enjolras, struggling to be heard over the wind.

Grantaire snorts, “Would you let a child be tortured?” 

“No!” Enjolras defends himself.

“Then what makes you think that I would let a child or a hatchling be harmed?”

“They are your government! They have your loyalty, so why would you interfere?”

Grantaire growls quietly, for him and Enjolras only, the rest of the Les Amis too absorbed in a game of poker to notice the slight vibration that travels the length of the green dragon’s body, angry despite himself, “I am appalled that you can think that of me that way, I am beholden to no man now that I have no Captain,” he feels Enjolras shift on the base of his neck, and wonders at the movement for a split second, “and certainly not to people who harm younglings. I am not Napoleon, Enjolras, I am never cruel. I have no qualms admitting that to anyone who cares to ask.”

Enjolras seems to have no answer, so Grantaire huffs, and concentrates on the beats of his wings once more.

The rest of the day passes in silence.

***

As Grantaire comes to a complete halt in the clearing Enjolras had chosen for a camp tonight, the sun already set, stars coming out, and air cooling rapidly. The man in question slides off the saddle at the base of his neck, gathering the other Captains, all the dragons have landed and their crew attending them, and the Les Amis quick to follow their example. 

Grantaire is tired after a long day on point in the V-formation, but his pride will not let him admit it. 

“You okay, Grantaire?” Yawns Bahorel, undoing his girth with practiced hands.

“I am fine, Bahorel, are you? You seem tired.” Replies Grantaire casting his eyes on the bags under Bahorel’s. 

“Yes, my mistress kept me up last night,” Bahorel’s grin gleams with mischief, and in the corner of his eye, he sees a slight flush spread on Feuilly’s cheeks.

Grantaire cracks a smile as well, teasing in his tone, “A Mistress, certainly, that is unfortunate, Bahorel. May you get more sleep tonight.”

“Oh, I am sure I will.” The man’s grin widens as his gaze darts to Feuilly, whose face becomes redder, and he concentrates intensely on the buckle he is undoing.

Once his tack is off, and they all have exchanged words with Grantaire, they wander off to the cookfire that one of the quicker crews have started, chattering, the Captains in deep discussion, and the dragons lying down and talking amongst themselves. As Grantaire watches, Heron calls Jehan over, but the Fleur-de-Nuit politely declines and moves over to Grantaire. Heron shrugs, and his conversation with Amelié resumes. 

“They seem to be getting on well,” Grantaire observes to Jehan, who comes to lie close to his side, “I would not be surprised if they were having eggs within the next year or two.” Jehan hums noncommittally, Grantaire can sense his worried eyes on him.

“Spit it out, Jehan, do not keep it to yourself,” sighs Grantaire, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of concern. 

“I cannot believe Enjolras would refuse you, Grantaire, you are perhaps the best of us all,” says Jehan frustratedly, “he is being ungrateful, rude, and more than that, extremely hurtful. I have half a mind to tear him in two.” 

“I am certainly not the best,” says Grantaire wearily, “nor the greatest, I am average, at my peak.” Jehan opens his jaws to interrupt, but Grantaire ignores him, “And, I would much prefer if you did not rip him in two, he is my Captain, even if I am not his dragon.”

“Oh Grantaire,” Jehan nuzzles him, sadly affectionate. “If you could see yourself, you would see how wrong you are,”

Grantaire snorts disbelievingly. “No, I do not believe I am.”

“You are, you are. Enjolras is blinded to your goodness because of prejudices, and you are blind to your goodness because you refuse to see it, my dear friend, you deserve so much more than him.”

“If I get any higher than him, God Himself would be my Captain.” Replies Grantaire tiredly.

Jehan sighs quietly, and nuzzles him again. The moment is broken by Courfeyrac shouting for him, where the Captains have finished their meeting and Grantaire tells him when he looks torn, “Go, I will be fine.” He gives Jehan a weak approximation of a smile, and Jehan goes reluctantly to his Captain across the grass, the shadows of the trees just held back by the firelight.

Grantaire huffs, looking up at the stars, spotting constellations and losing himself in them.

“Beautiful, are they not?” Feuilly’s voice asks in a murmur. Grantaire looks down at him. The man is carrying a food bowl, staring up at the constellations as well. Grantaire thinks about asking him about the situation with Bahorel’s mistress, who is obviously Feuilly, but decides against it. He will not get involved unless he truly feels the need.

“Yes, they are,” says Grantaire softly, breathing in the night-sharp air.

The human and the dragon stare at the stars for a few minutes in silence. 

Pointing to a constellation, he says, “That’s called the Weasel in Poland,”

“You are Polish?” Asks Grantaire in surprise. There seems to still be many things about his crew that he does not know.

“Yes I am,” answers Feuilly, a smile playing on his lips, “I know a story about it if you are willing to listen.”

Grantaire inclines his head, he is interested.

Feuilly sucks in a deep breath and sits, leaning on the dip between where Grantaire’s foreleg meets his body, and the joint, “Is this all right?” Inquires Feuilly lightly, gesturing to his position on Grantaire.

“Absolutely fine,” the dragon tells Feuilly, eager for the story.

“Then here we go: In the beginning days when all came up from the underworld, a huge gathering was planned, uniting all the four-leggeds and flyers. At this meeting Our Father selected a human being to take a jar of stars, hang them in the sky and name them, for all to enjoy.”

Grantaire was enthralled by Feuilly gesturing and the story.

“Weasel was very interested in what was going on, but being a wiggler and trickster then as he is now, Our Father turned to him and said "Do not make mischief here!"

The human being was busy, placing the stars in ordered patterns upon the sky... Seven Stars here and the three Pot Rest Stars there. When he had placed the beautiful Morning Star he stood back and admired his work, as did all the rest.

While everyone including Our Father was gathered to gaze at the luminous Morning Star, Weasel tiptoed over to the jar of stars to see for himself what the man was doing. As he lifted the jar's lid just a little, the stars rose to the occasion, pushed the lid away and raced for the sky. This is the reason so many twinkle without order or pattern, and why so many are not named.

Our Father was angry with Weasel, and said that because of his mischief with the stars Weasel would forever be a wanderer and bring trouble with him wherever he may go. That some days he could be happy and abundant, but other days he would see unhappiness and hunger.” Feuilly finishes, taking a bite out of his supper.

Grantaire rumbles happily, his grief for Napoleon and Enjolras’s half-rejection on the back of his mind for once, “That was a tale just as beautiful as the stars, Feuilly, thank you for sharing it with me.” 

“It was no problem, Grantaire, I could share stories with you another time, though not tonight, my throat is ragged.” Feuilly grins for the first time at Grantaire, and Grantaire grins back, teeth and all.

They sit in peace for around ten minutes, then they both start when they hear Enjolras stomping towards Grantaire through the dark, the pulse of the campfire not quite reaching Grantaire’s secluded corner.

“Feuilly!” Snaps Enjolras, arms folded, “I need to speak to Grantaire _in private,_ so please may you leave.”

Feuilly gets up grudgingly from his comfortable position against Grantaire, calling a good night over his shoulder on the way back to his campfire, Grantaire responding appropriately. 

“That was rude,” says Grantaire to Enjolras, the man tossing his hair, which catches the frail moonlight, and says, “No matter, it is done now.”

Grantaire sighs. He seems to be doing an awful lot of sighing nowadays. 

“Want do you want, Enjolras?”

“I need to ask you about how to approach the Spanish incursors,” explains Enjolras huffily.

Grantaire bemusedly fields all of his questions, once or twice trying to ask why this could not wait until tomorrow, but Enjolras is snappy and short, and he does not know why.

When he finally departs to his sleeping roll without so much as a good night, Grantaire stares after him in total confusion.

In his daze, he does not register the light footsteps of Musichetta until she lays a hand on his shoulder. He jumps, and then looks at her secret smile in askance.

“Enjolras has always been possessive.”

She wanders off, leaving Grantaire to ponder that enigmatic statement long into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too pleased with this chapter, but oh well. BUT SRSLY I LOVE YOU ALL OK
> 
> (Also, removing that note below this one, how do?)


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID I MENTION I LOVE YOU ALL AND TAKE THIS CHAPTER AS A MEAGRE OFFERING

Two days later, the dragons and crews are flying still towards the Spanish border, Musichetta's words never leaving Grantaire's mind for an instance. he has tried to puzzle out their meaning, but to little avail; what would Enjolras have to be possessive over? Certainly not Grantaire, whom he has made perfectly clear that he disapproves of and ultimately dislikes.

Grantaire frowns to himself.

Beside him in the regiment formation, two dragons next to each other in pairs, one guarding the tail, Jehan looked over to him, concerned. Grantaire shakes his head to him, and focuses on flying. A forest is below them, an unbroken emerald carpet that obscures the tiny villages in its midst, from where smoke is rising through the canopy, and the hazy horizon is empty, aside from tall trees. 

The crews today started off in battle positions, for they are getting close to where Javert said the incursors were, but as the day goes past and no sight is forthcoming, the Amis have gradually migrated back to the saddle in the centre of Grantaire's back, playing another card game. 

Enjolras leans as close to his head as he can and shouts into the wind, "How far do you think we are from the Spanish border?" 

"No more than twenty leagues, Enjolras, I would have thought that if there had been any incursion, we would have encountered it by now." Grantaire calls to the Captain.

Courfeyrac looks over from Jehan, "We should have seen them by now, or at least some evidence of their passage,"

"Aye," agrees d'Bayfar from Guillaume's back, "It is worrisome." D'Bayfar is older than them all, and his contribution makes Grantaire's brow crinkle. 

"Hmm." Hums Grantaire, driving his wings down with more force than is necessary, lurching them forwards in the air.

"Watch it," says Enjolras sharply, and the Amis who have been slightly displaced by the movement chime their agreement; the cards in the makeshift table have spilled onto the saddle. 

"Sorry," he snorts, not feeling particularly sorry at all.

As if this was a signal of a peculiar nature, the horizon is suddenly not empty any more.

Six dragons, outnumbering them, not in any kind of French saddle wear or tack, are winging their way towards them, fast.

"Battle positions!" Thunders Enjolras, jumping up and the Amis, scramble, cards forgotten as they leap towards their weapons and tie themselves into their positions.

"Ow, Musichetta," snaps Cosette, angry in her nervousness, "watch were you are sticking that buckle."

"Sorry, Cosette." Says Musichetta, not really paying attention. 

The Amis movement makes Grantaire feel very unsteady, they are not used to moving fast while in flight, and makes him rock.

As he looks, Jehan's crew is rushing about is considerably more grace than Grantaire's; Courfeyrac is talking to Jehan in a quiet voice, hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Jehan does not particularly enjoy bloodshed; especially if he is the one causing it. 

He can't continue to gaze on such a bond, it makes his heart hurt too much for him to handle. 

"Do not aim to fight!" Booms Grantaire, distracting himself, to the other dragons; Heron's mouth is already curved in a snarl as he glares at the Spanish dragons, which are a little over one league away now, and Grantaire feels his claws tighten, and adrenaline beginning to pulse through his veins. With an effort, he pushes it back, trying to think rationally not in a battle-haze.

"Avoid bloodshed! Injuries here could be fatal!" He finishes, he feels Enjolras lean over Grantaire's neck.

"We did not discuss this!" He hisses furiously.

"So what?" Says Grantaire plainly, "Would you rather get one of these crews and dragons under your command killed?" 

For this Enjolras has no answer, so the Captain seems to resolve to ignore the entire thing.

Despite the serious situation, Grantaire rolls his eyes at his Captain for his childish behaviour.

One of the Spanish aggressors roars a challenge, and they are close enough that Grantaire can see the light glinting off the curved claws. He almost jumps when he hears Heron roar back.

“Calm yourself, Heron!” Grantaire growls to him, and the smaller dragon settles back discontentedly.

“Hail them, Grantaire, we are doing it your way, it seems,” murmurs Enjolras, but he does not seem happy about it. 

“Very well.” Grantaire replies, and the Spanish dragons are only a few hundred metres away now. 

“Hail!” Bellowed Grantaire at the Spanish dragons, who halt confused. He gestures for the other dragons to remain hovering, he continues speaking for their benefit, “We are going to see if we can do this without bloodshed.”

“But-” starts Heron hotly, extending his claws.

“Quiet, Heron,” says Amelié from her place beside him, “listen to Grantaire.” Heron looks resentful, but stops talking, Grey falling back from his aggressive stance as well.

“Let us only fight to defend ourselves-”

“Hail,” calls back a human voice in heavily accented French from one of the Spanish dragons. Grantaire turns his head back, and feels Enjolras stand in his regular place at the base of his neck.

“Greetings.” Shouts Enjolras over the gap between the dragons and crews of both nations, “what brings you to French territory?” Although the words are carefully polite, practised, but Grantaire can bet that the Spanish can sense the heat underneath them as well as he could. His heart sinking, he thinks, this is not going to end well if Enjolras keeps this up.

The Spanish tense and mutter amongst themselves, before the lead Captain spits, “What are we doing here, you ask?” 

Enjolras nods affirmation.

“You know, French scum! You lie!”

Grantaire has to restrain himself from leaping on the other dragon, for the slight to Enjolras. A ripple passes through the French dragons, and abruptly tension is gathering, muscles tightening, lips curling, even Jehan looks ready for a fight.

“Excuse me?” The dangerous edge to Enjolras’ voice is no longer an undercurrent; rather, it is as sharp as a sword.

“You heard what I say, scum; you know!” The Spanish leader hawks and spits over the side of his dragon rather disgustingly. The Spanish dragons are glaring fiercely at the French ones, and the lead Captain’s glowers at Grantaire and snarls. Grantaire forces himself not to respond in kind, instead trying to maintain a cool mask.

“Care to repeat that?” Asks Enjolras quietly, venomously. Grantaire thinks fast, seeking a way to salvage the situation before it gets out of hand.

As the Spanish leader opens his mouth to reply, Grantaire interrupts, “What my Captain meant,” and if he gets a little thrill out of saying _my Captain_ then that’s no-one’s business but his, “is that we do not know, and I am sorry if we have caused offence.” His voice is courteous, a lifetime spent among nobles is apparently useful for somethings, after all. 

He can feel outraged looks on him from all sides, but continues to stare at the Spanish Captain steadily, who looks taken aback, he was obviously searching for a fight. Still, the Captain’s expression is furious, “If you truly do not know, Frenchmen, you should. It was your leadership that sent an attack group to the Spanish Armada, destroying fifteen of our boats.”

Grantaire hears Jehan suck in a breath. He himself is in a daze. He knew none of this. Enjolras’ relaxes somewhat, shocked, probably, while the grip of the tack along his body slackens too, as the Amis take in this information.

The Spanish Captain seems to gauge their reactions, looking mollified at what he finds. “You did not know.”

“Still, we apologise on behalf of the Captains, dragons and crews.” Grantaire cuts in quickly as he hears Enjolras’ intake of breath.

“No need, dragon, they are all dead.” The Spanish Captain’s face is victorious.

The French dragons, crews and Captains are deadly silent, and Grantaire grieves for his fallen compatriots. But as he thinks over it, he realises that he never got any news at all that the dragons and Captains had died. They must have known it was a suicide mission; going that deep into Spanish territory and coming out alive was impossible. Why did they do it?

He is drawn out of his thoughts by Bahorel’s and Courfeyrac’s cursing. Courfeyrac is sitting forwards on Jehan’s neck, murder in his eyes at he stares at the other dragons. Jehan’s eyes have darkened dangerously, and Grantaire knows that the other French dragons are the same. He can sense Enjolras’ murderous fury on the air. He must do something; or this will end in more senseless killing.

“I grieve their loss,” says Grantaire unsteadily, sadness still clouding his mind, “and I am sorry that they inflicted damage upon your property. Please accept recompense and my sincerest regrets.” What he really wants to do is rip out the Spanish dragons’ lungs, but he must keep himself in check. He must do this. For once, he must take up his duties as the leader.

The Spanish Captain sniffs haughtily. “I accept recompense and apology.”

“Name your price.” Says Grantaire heavily, thinking that they have taken enough already. The others have the good sense enough to follow his lead, and the military training, but for Enjolras.

“Have you not taken enough already?” He demands, echoing Grantaire’s thoughts. 

“What, boy?” The Spanish Captains stiffen and glare.

“You have already taken lives! Shouldn't that be enough?” He cries, voice full of righteous fury, hand resting on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Your dragon has more sense than you, boy, listen and learn from him.” The Spanish Captain looks down his nose at Enjolras, and Grantaire tenses in outrage, but controls himself with tremendous difficulty. Enjolras could learn nothing from a layabout like himself.

“Hmm.” Starts the Spanish man, “I think four thousand livres should suffice.” Amelié gasps at the price, and Heron sets up a growl.

“I will notify my superiors immediately,” Grantaire inclines his head, heart heavy. If there was a way to make Enjolras hate him more, this was it.

“In return, get off of French territory.” Says Enjolras tightly, obviously trying to keep a firm rein on himself. 

“Fine. But if we do not get payment in forty days, we will be back, and we will raze this forest to the ground.”

“Very well.” Says Grantaire.

The Spanish turn and leave without further ado. One of the younger Captains turns back and mouths to Grantaire, “I am sorry for your loss.” He had a sincere, kind face, and he them urged his dragon after the others.

For a moment, among the French dragons, there was silence.

Then, everyone burst out at once, talking to Grantaire angrily and quickly, apart from d’Bayfar and Guillaume, who are nodding in approving acceptance.

Noise growing too loud for him to bear, he booms, “Wait until we make camp! Question me then.” And they quiet, grumbling, shooting nasty looks at Grantaire. He sighs.

The flight to a clearing is short, but incredibly tense, more so than ever between Enjolras and Grantaire. 

As they landed, the dragons turned as one to Grantaire, Jehan looking more concerned than anything else. He approved. Grantaire breathes a little easier in knowing that one of his oldest friends has not abandoned him. Jehan is whispering to Courfeyrac amidst pants, and the Captain is displaying more grudging acceptance for Grantaire’s actions as each word passes Jehan’s lips.

“What were you thinking?!” Growls Heron, grey-black wings mantling, “They killed our comrades, we should have gutted them!” His Captain, Grey, dips his head in agreement.

“What would that have achieved?” Asks Grantaire wearily, “More death? More violence? Heron, ask yourself: why die for someone who is already dead and beyond your reach?” 

Stuck, Heron just growls again, wings settling and looks less angry. He and Captain Grey have always been aggressive, but they are good people. 

“But they should have paid!” Persists d’Ordance, red in the face.

“Paid for what, d’Ordance?” Answers Guillaume in the stead of Grantaire, and he is more thankful than ever for the older dragon, “Would we have paid if a Spanish attack destroyed our navy, and we in turn destroyed the one who had done it? You must see both sides of the argument before you make a judgement.”

“But-”

“No buts, d’Ordance, you see the logic.” D’Ordance and d’Emilme wheel their dragons away, crew slipping off to untack them, muttering amongst themselves. Heron moves away, following them.

Guillaume sighs, “Do not worry yourself, Grantaire. They are grieving, we all are, but they will see the truth soon.” 

“Thank you, Guillaume.” He is truly grateful for the older dragon’s help, tired and overcome as he is. D’Bayfar starts to murmur to him, and they too move off.

As he feels the Amis slip off his back, undoing his tack efficiently, Enjolras still sitting still on his neck, Jehan and Courfeyrac come over, crew already off, although his second in command, Marius, seems to be stuck in some sort of daze, staring at Cosette in adoration. As he looks, Cosette sees Marius and blushes pink.

Grantaire stifles a chuckle. They will have a stupidly adorable relationship, he decides almost instantly. 

Courfeyrac clears his throat, “I cannot say I like what you did; but I can see why you did it, I do not begrudge you it.” 

“Thank you Courfeyrac, you are a better friend than I deserve.” Replies Grantaire thankfully. 

Some mischief returns to Courfeyrac’s eyes, “Ha! For this, expect some unexpected surprises!” Grantaire almost groans. Courfeyrac is a notorious prankster, he will have to check is clearing for beehives every night for some weeks now. But he would rather have to fly fast in the middle of the night and endure a few bee stings if it means he retains Courfeyrac’s friendship.

“I understand,” says Jehan softly, “I do not begrudge you it, my friend,” the Fleur-de-Nuit nuzzles him, smiling, but then d’Bayfar calls them to help with some task or other and they leave, Courfeyrac dismounting with ease.

This reminds Grantaire that Enjolras has not dismounted, and he rolls his shoulders, trying to encourage him to dismount as well. He does not, and Grantaire can imagine his jaw fixing mulishly. He sighs.

He sees the Amis come round to his head, and he lies onto the mossy ground of the clearing so he is more at their level, folding his wings comfortably to his body, claws ripping at the moss for something to do.

Very seriously, they approach him, and Bahorel steps forward, and Grantaire is nervous, as if he is facing a court marshal. “I do not like what you did, but I forgive you, because you did what you thought was right, I can respect that.”

“I agree with Bahorel, just consult us next time, eh?” Bossuet winks, his easy manner unchanged and something that felt off-kilter in the group settles back to normal.

“Yes,” chimes in Cosette, who Marius is still looking at, like a gangly, starry-eyed puppy, “just consult us next time.” The others nod.

“I will next time, I consider your inputs to be extremely valuable.” He replies, once more thankful that they have not deserted him. 

“No problems!” Laughs Bossuet, and he, Joly and Musichetta walk off towards the throng of people trying to light a campfire.

Cosette looks torn, glancing from Marius to the Amis. “Go, Cosette, he likes you,” rumbles Grantaire, and Cosette’s face burns red.

This time, Grantaire does chuckle as she scurries off in the direction of Marius, trying to look casual, while the young man stares at her like she hung the moon. Across the clearing Jehan meets Grantaire’s eyes, smiling toothily, seconds away from squealing at Marius and Cosette. Grantaire grins back.

He curves his neck when he feels Feuilly tap on his foot. The man grins at him, “You did well up there, a proper leader.” 

“Thank you Feuilly,” says Grantaire warmly, he feels Enjolras squeeze his saddle, hard.

“Feuilly, come on,” calls Bahorel from where he is hovering awkwardly, and the ginger haired man grins once more at Grantaire, but looks warily up at Enjolras before following Bahorel to where the crews have finally got a fire burning.

After a few moments, when it is clear Enjolras is not going to get off without encouragement he says, “Are you going to get off me, Enjolras?”

He feels Enjolras’ weight slide off him, silent. Grantaire lets trepidation seep into him, tensing, as if for a battle.

When Enjolras has reached his head, his expression is thunderous. 

Grantaire supposes he is furious with him, barricading his feelings up tightly as if that would stop them getting hurt.

The green dragon finally asks into the silence and Enjolras’ stormy expression, “Why are you angry, Enjolras?” 

“Why am I angry?” Asks Enjolras, deadly soft, “Why am I angry?” He asks again louder this time. Grantaire decides remaining silent is the best option.  
“Why am I angry?” He asks for a third time, almost shouting, lowering his voice when some people glance back to him.

“I am angry, no, livid, because you let those Spanish idiots get off freely, without recompense, for killing French dragons, and instead, we have to pay them!” He starts to pace quickly in front on Grantaire, forking a hand through his wavy blond hair. “They were _murdered_ yet you let them leave with a prance in their step!” The stress on ’you’ is big enough to make it an accusation.

“They did attack the Spanish first,” reasons Grantaire quietly, staring down at his claws, clenching them almost experimentally.

“That is no excuse! They are _murderers!”_ Enjolras bursts out, fiercely. “They should pay!”

“With what? Blood?” Replies Grantaire, beginning to anger for the first time since the incident with the Spanish happened, “Fighting wounds all and accomplishes nothing, Enjolras, it would have been senseless violence if there was an alternative, which there was, so I took it. Resent me if you will, but I will do what I think is right.” At the end of his little speech, he is nose to nose with Enjolras, snorting. He thinks he sees a flash of respect and pride in his eyes, but it vanishes quickly under a thin, neutral mask.

“They should have still paid.” Returns Enjolras stubbornly, arms folded.

Grantaire breaths deeply in and out for a moment. When he speaks his voice is gentler, “You are young, Enjolras. You need to think with your head, not with your gun.” 

The blond Captain looks slightly chastised, and more than that, sorrowful. “But why did they go? It was a suicide mission, they must have known that,” Enjolras unwittingly echoes Grantaire’s thoughts once more. 

“I believe Admiral Javert and the king had something to do with it.” Grantaire, in the privacy of his mind, grieves for the lost. “They are corrupted by greed and hunger for power.”

His expression abruptly changing, Enjolras casts his eyes calculatingly on Grantaire, making the huge green dragon shrink in his scales, what had he done now?

After a few minutes of this gaze, with only the chatter from the fire breaking the peace, Enjolras says cryptically, “I have something to show you once we are home.”

He walks off. Grantaire wonders at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS PEOPLES 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCHLY FOR THE COMMENTS AND KUDOS SRSLY I LOVE YOU ALL


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a day late! XD

The next morning dawns bright blue, common for summer in France. Enjolras makes no mention of what he said the previous night, and continues as if nothing has happened, instructing the other Captains on how to approach Javert when they return.

As Bahorel tugs his saddle into place, Grantaire watching, the man smirks, and he obviously knows something Grantaire does not. Mildly irritated by this, Grantaire says, “Speak, Bahorel, does the cat have your tongue?”

Bahorel’s smirk only widens, and he replies, “It’s nothing, Grantaire, you shall know soon enough.” Still grinning, he hops off and slopes to the banked fire, greeting Feuilly with a gentle hand on his arm. Grantaire snorts in annoyance, wings ruffling.

“Jehan, stand still!” Shouts one of his crew members, red in the face, “You are as wriggly as an ant today!” 

Jehan giggles, as much as a dragon can, and tries to cease his movement to only a faint vibration, Courfeyrac looks on indulgently. 

Smiling in amusement, he swings his head to where Musichetta is doing up the buckle for his outstretched right wing. Spotting Marius and Cosette staring at each other lovingly, he says, “Were they like this all night?” Grantaire had fallen asleep early for once, untroubled by dreams, had missed most of the proceedings at the campfire last night.

“Yes,” Musichetta shakes her head exasperatedly, “if you mean sickeningly adorable.” 

Grantaire barks a laugh, “They do seem it don't they?” 

“Indeed,” grins Musichetta, finishing with the right wing and jogging round to the left, already stretched partially, helping Bossuet, who had somehow got stuck in a leather loop.

Grantaire observes the bald man, “How did you become a dragon crew member with your bad luck?” He does not ask it patronisingly or nastily, so Bossuet only smiles wryly, runs a hand over his head.

“It was more a matter of luck than you will ever know; and I suppose I can say I am somewhat elegant at the right times.” 

Grantaire smiles.

“Come on, Bossuet, nearly there!” With a final yank that jerks Grantaire’s wings and body, Musichetta frees Bossuet, who rubs his arm sheepishly. Grantaire folds his wings to himself again.

“If you are quite done pulling Grantaire’s wings off,” says Enjolras, a tiny, rare smile on his face. Grantaire loses his breath, “we are going to depart in five minutes.” All the other dragons are nearly tacked, crews and Captains making last minute preparations, packing up their own things as well. Enjolras stands back as Musichetta rushes round to Grantaire’s head.

“Cosette!” Calls Musichetta, “Come help me with the chest piece!” Grantaire obligingly exposes the paler, flat green scales of his chest to allow them to affix it to the saddle at the base of his neck.

“Can't Bossuet do it?” Cosette shouts back, preoccupied with Marius, who is holding her hand adoringly. She looks like she is having trouble tearing her gaze away from the puppy-like man entirely.

“It’s Bossuet!” Musichetta yells, Bossuet rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, Joly appearing so suddenly beside him, that it makes the black-skinned man jump and stumble.

“Right!” Cosette hurries over, and Marius stares after her forlornly. 

“Thanks,” puffs Musichetta, lifting the heavy leather cross strap, two meaning to go over his shoulders to connect to the Captain’s saddle and two underneath his forelegs to attach to the back saddle, set with a huge emerald in the centre where all four pieces meet. It was the first thing that Napoleon had bought him, and it makes him ache. It is traditional, with the Captain’s starting money, to buy the dragon a stone, precious or non-precious, the same colour of their scales. Enjolras should have brought him something, but Grantaire forgets, Enjolras is not his Captain.

The corners of Grantaire’s mouth turn down almost imperceptibly. 

“There,” says Cosette, standing back to admire her handiwork. 

“We’re done!” Musichetta says to Enjolras, scrambling up to her place on Grantaire’s back.

“Good.” Enjolras nods and turns to the other dragons, saying, “Let’s go.”

He climbs to his place on Grantaire, who twitches at the itchy feeling.

“What is the matter, Grantaire, why do you keep twitching?” 

“Who is twitching?” Asks Joly anxiously from the saddle.

“No, I am fine,” Grantaire tells both of them, “you are just tickling me.”

Enjolras nods shortly, while Joly chatters, “Are you sure it is not mites?” 

“Perfectly sure, thank you Joly.” Grantaire is amused rather than insulted at Joly for thinking he had scale mites. Trust him to always make the worst of any injury or perceived illness.

“Focus, Grantaire!” Enjolras taps his shoulder, “We are leaving!”

Seeing the other dragons take off, Grantaire runs and launches himself into the air behind them, leaving nothing at the campsite other than the burnt wood of the fire.

***

After discussing how to speak with Javert when they reach the dragon stables, the flight is silent between Enjolras and Grantaire, who half-wishes Feuilly would exchange places with Enjolras so he could tell Grantaire a story. Alas, no such luck.

Jehan is still in high spirits for whatever reason, swinging through the air seemingly with no cares in the world, half dislodging Courfeyrac in a particularly violent motion. The others are calmer, but are still chatting to each other in good enough moods. 

Grantaire does not talk to them, as he might once of done. He did not bother to make or retain friendships, or make himself be sociable, so everyone drifted away from him, leaving him in their dust. Grantaire used to be highly sought out for jokes, pranks or just a good time, but ever since Napoleon’s death, the shadows that were always below the surface came into play.

Grantaire shakes his head violently, removing those thoughts forcefully, he can sense Enjolras’ eyes questioningly on him. Grantaire ignores them. 

Suddenly a yowling comes up from the ground, a dragon in trouble, a young one by the tone of the screech. 

Grantaire’s nostrils flare automatically, searching for any scent that might hint at danger. This high up, he cannot smell anything bar the cold-sharp-clear scent of the high atmosphere. 

Heron’s head is tipped downwards, listening, Amelié slowing down her flight do she can listen more intently, Guillaume and Jehan searching the ground with eagle’s eyes, d’Emilme’s dragon, Astra, slowing down her flight as well.

The Captains and crews are look on them with bewilderment, they cannot hear anything with their dull human ears, realises Grantaire, “We can hear a dragon in distress,” he calls, twisting his head to see Enjolras’ expression harden.

“Courfeyrac, Jehan, you will fly down with me and Grantaire!” Commands Enjolras.

“What are we, chopped liver?” Grumbles Cosette, and she makes Grantaire grin.

“What?” Protests Heron, looking back, “We want to come too!”

“No,” instructs Enjolras firmly, “if we take too long, we could overrun our assigned time. You must go ahead and take the news to Javert.”

“Very well,” replies Amelié, although she does not seem particularly happy about it, but she is a soldier, and all soldiers are taught to follow a superior’s commands. She speeds up her flight once more, Astra following.

“Be careful!” Yells d’Bayfar.

“Do not take unnecessary risks, Grantaire!” Says Guillaume. Grantaire fidgets as he remembers why he addresses it to just Grantaire. Before, he and Napoleon had quite the reputation for being reckless and dangerously stupid. 

“We will be fine! Continue!” Shouts Enjolras back, and Guillaume flaps his wings harder to catch up with the others.

“Ready?” Asks Courfeyrac, meeting Enjolras’ eyes, Jehan looking steadily at Grantaire.

“Yes.” Answers Enjolras, grip tightening on Grantaire’s saddle.

“Let’s go, then!” Jehan folds his wings to dive shallowly towards the source of the noise, Grantaire down the same, and he can hear Bahorel whooping in excitement.

When they reach a low height, Grantaire and Jehan start to scour the ground for the source of the yowling. Then, after a couple of minutes of searching, he spots two dragons, one a Petit Chevalier, and the other a minuscule Pascal’s Blue, its’ blue-grey wings flapping as the heavyweight holds it in its’ mouth like a kitten. Neither seem to have crews, which suggests a delivery mission of some kind.

“There!” Says Grantaire, pointing with one claw to the struggling pair. 

“Go on then!” Urges Enjolras, leaning forward in the saddle, “Land!” 

“Well, I had not thought of that!” Snarks Grantaire, and can practically hear Enjolras’ eyes roll. 

Rolling his own eyes, Grantaire thumps to the ground inelegantly, the Petit Chevalier and their Captain looking very startled to see a large dragon and a smaller one land with no warning.

Taking the opportunity of the Captain and the dragon’s surprise, the Pascal’s Blue wrenches free of the Petit Chevalier’s jaws, and then pants on the ground, something shiny held in its’ claws.

“Greetings,” Enjolras inclines his head to the unknown Captain.

“G-greetings,” stammers the other Captain back, staring at Grantaire’s bulk with wide eyes.

Courfeyrac opens his mouth, but Grantaire is already sick of formalities, interrupts to get straight to the point, “Why are you keeping that dragon captive?” 

The Captain’s gaze becomes angry, “He stole something from us,” and the Petit Chevalier nods in agreement, glaring at the Pascal’s Blue, who has now enough energy to glower back defiantly.

“There was no need to use such force!” Says Jehan sharply, he has, like Grantaire, always been protective over hatchlings and young dragons.

“What did he steal?” Inquires Enjolras measuredly.

The Petit Chevalier answers in a surprisingly light tone for one so big, “A very valuable coronet of the queen’s, that little rascal stole it as we took off.”

At the mention of the monarchy, Enjolras’ jaw clenches. “Surely there is enough wealth in the king’s pocket for the queen to have another one made,”

The Captain looks dumbstruck at the mere notion, “But she wants this one, so this one she shall get, she is the queen after all,”

Enjolras’ teeth grind, “Maybe this dragon has better use for it than her,” 

Grantaire turns his attention to the Pascal’s Blue, only to find him sneaking off, “I see you,” declared the green dragon, and the blue-grey one swivelled round again without so much as a flinch, weighing his options, then walking grudgingly back to the small group, the set of his shoulders cocksure, the coronet hooked around one foreleg.

Grantaire likes him already.

“Hey-!” Starts the Captain, dragon poised to lunge again.

Jehan cuts him off, “Where is your Captain?” He asks gently, and Grantaire all of a sudden comes to the conclusion that this Pascal’s Blue does not have a Captain, and is too young for his Captain to have died of natural causes.

Grantaire winces at the implications of his thought, and Jehan seems to be one step ahead, eyes filling with pity and sympathy. He feels numb empathy towards this tiny Blue.

The Blue, however, only seems to be more at ease with the situation, and answers brashly, “Never had one. I'm _rogue.”_ he says the word _rogue_ with smug superiority, like he is above all of them. Something inside Grantaire warms slightly, relaxing in relief. 

The other Captain seems once more without words to speak, staring in shock at the Pascal’s Blue. Jehan looks completely heartbroken, wings slumping dejectedly.

Grantaire recovers first, “Then what is your name, young one?” 

The Blue’s lip curls ever so slightly, as if being called young is the most offensive insult he can think of, and this solidifies Grantaire’s belief that he is only just out of babyhood. “’m Gavroche.” He replies, wings giving a self-important shake. 

“Then, Gavroche, did you steal it?” Quizzed Courfeyrac, and it seems like a formality, given that they can all plainly see the white gold band hooked around his right foreleg. 

“Of course,” Gavroche gives Courfeyrac a look so unimpressed that Grantaire almosts laughs, “are you blind or stupid or something?” Jehan sighs, nostrils flaring minutely.

“See!” Growls the Captain, “He did steal it! He even admits it!” And the Petit Chevalier snarls at Gavroche, teeth bared.

“Calm down!” Admonishes Grantaire, who can see the situation beginning to spiral out of control.

“Yes,” agrees Enjolras, “calm down.” He pauses for a moment, breaths deeply before continuing, gazing at Gavroche, “Why did you steal the coronet?”

“’cause I could,” returns Gavroche mischievously, lifting his right foreleg to admire the coronet, so blatantly, that it was obvious that he was taunting the Petit Chevalier and their Captain, growled and tensed, but did not move.

Grantaire smirks at Gavroche, who grins back.

“Grantaire, stop encouraging him!” Hisses Enjolras irritatedly.

“Or what?” Retorts Grantaire, “I like him, he has got some spirit,” Enjolras sighs disgustedly, and Grantaire’s claws dig into the ground.

“He has to give it back!” Demands the other Captain heatedly, “The queen’ll have our necks if he doesn't.” 

Enjolras mutters something that sounds suspiciously like; “Let her have your necks then.” And Grantaire has to stifle a brief spurt of amusement caused by the words.

Without any warning, Gavroche snaps open his wings, before leaping off the ground and flying like lightning. “She’ll have your necks then!” He yells cheekily over his shoulder, looping crazily in the sky, darting this way and that, before disappearing from view.

The Petit Chevalier roars on anger, and despite Courfeyrac, Jehan, Marius and Enjolras calling them back, saying it was no use pursuing the quick little dragon, but they were gone in a nanosecond too, over the ground at a rate of knots.

Enjolras, shaking his head in exasperation, motions for them to fly after Grey, Heron, d’Ordance, Amelié, d’Emilme, Astra, d’Bayfar and Guillaume, when Grantaire spots a pair of amber dragon eyes peeking out of a copse of trees a few hundred metres away. He grins, thinking that Gavroche’s eyes are amber, and winks at the eyes. 

The eyes wink cockily back, and Grantaire bellows a laugh, shaking his head at his fellow dragon, Captains and crew. 

He is still chuckling as they catch up to the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SNOWFLAKES FOR THE COMMENTS AND KUDOS I LOVE YOU ALL


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in this Éponine is a little ooc, but as she grows she'll be more like herself

_”I have something to show you tonight, still be awake when the moon reaches its’ zenith.”_

Enjolras’ words from this morning come back to Grantaire, as he kneads his claws against the earth, despite himself, he is nervous, wings fluttering uneasily against his back. What did Enjolras have to show him? He really had absolutely no idea.

And yet, here he was, awake still, the cloudless sky with the moon riding high amongst the pin-point stars. A night breeze stirs the branches of the trees, rattling them, giving the night an odd, eerie feel, as if eyes were watching him from every angle. The thought makes Grantaire shudder, dig the tips of his claws into the earth. 

Grantaire becomes more anxious as the moon reaches and passes its’ highest point, but he waits still. A hour after midnight has passed, Grantaire gives into tiredness, resting his head on his paws, and shutting both sets of eyelids. 

A spare free minutes has passed when he hears the ungainly snapping of branches from the far edge of his clearing, and he lifts his head quickly, eyeballing the place where the sound had come from. Another snap, and them he hears Bahorel bark, “ _Bossuet!_ Can you _not?”_

Grantaire hears a sheepish, “Sorry,” from Bossuet in response. He relaxes, but more confused than ever. He thought whatever Enjolras wanted to show him would be confined to him only, not the rest of the Amis. 

“Grantaire!” He catches Cosette’s hiss, “It is us, do not attack!” 

“Fine.” Grantaire hopes his voice does not betray his confusion, and he then sees the Amis and Enjolras pour into the clearing in a stream of humanity. Enjolras strides in first, as always, hair still managing to gleam in the waning light of the moon, glancing about him like he expects to be attacked any second. Combeferre is at his right shoulder, and in his arms Éponine is sleepily lying, despite her now being almost as big as him. The others follow more rowdily, pushing and shoving each other this way and that, sharing jokes and jibes. 

“Greetings, everyone,” says Grantaire, keeping his voice low for the benefit of the air of secrecy and Éponine. “Although, I must confess, I am surprised, I expected only Enjolras to come here.”

“No!” Grins Bahorel, not bothering to keep his voice quiet, “We”d always come to the meetings!” 

“Meetings?” Grantaire cocks his head quizzically, but before any of the Amis can respond, Enjolras cuts them off with a harsh whisper, “Watch out, here come Courfeyrac and Jehan!”

Indeed, as Grantaire looks to the heavens, he can just about make out a dark blue void where stars should be, coming into land. Jehan lands with more grace than Grantaire will ever manage, his green eyes shining and his teeth gleaming as he smiles at Grantaire, who’s confusion increases tenfold. Why is Jehan and Courfeyrac here?

“Jehan and Courfeyrac are here because they are part of this,” says Enjolras, answering Grantaire’s thoughts. Grantaire starts, how could he know what he was thinking... But, an idea grows subtly in the back of Grantaire’s mind, but before it can come to fruition, Jehan leans onto his side, jerking him off his train of thought.

“Hello, Jehan.” Grantaire says, licking Jehan’s cheek, who licks his cheek in return. 

“Sorry we’re late,” beams Courfeyrac, “it’s hard to sneak out when Javert is searching for the slightest reason to fire you from the ranks,” It was true, after the Spanish incident, Javert had been apocalyptically angry, and he now seemed to have it in for the people who went on the mission, ever since they had told him one day ago. In fact, Javert had sent them away after the first sentence; talking about the four thousand livre fee they have to pay the Spanish.

Grantaire feels insurmountably guilty, it was his choice that might get good soldiers, not more than that, good men, women and dragons discharged from the ranks of the Air Corps, and it would be on his heart and conscience.

“Yes, I am sorry about that,” Grantaire inclines his head, unable to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes. 

“No need to be sorry!” Says Courfeyrac merrily, “He’s an bigoted idiot I do not care whether he is angry or not.” The words, however, still do not ease Grantaire’s guilt. In place of words, he hums, neither a confirmation or a disagreement. 

“If we could get on with the meeting, if you please?” Says Enjolras irritably, arms folding with annoyance. Combeferre sets Éponine down against the side of Grantaire Jehan is not leaning on, looking up to the green dragon to see whether he approved. Grantaire nodded, and he smiled gratefully, then went to stand beside Enjolras once more. Grantaire covered the young dragon with a wing absently, and Jehan smiled fondly at him. 

After much grumbling, the Amis settled in place around the clearing, all facing Enjolras. Feuilly and Bahorel came and sat against Grantaire, who did not mind. Soon enough, Enjolras was the only one left standing, gilded in pale moonbeams. When he saw Feuilly leaning against him, his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, but Grantaire had a dragon’s eyesight, and noticed it, but he did not know what to make of it, so he cast it aside. 

“Right.” Enjolras breathes in deeply for a moment, “I do suppose you are wondering why we are all here.”

“Yes, quite,” replies Grantaire bemusedly.

“Well, we,” he gestures grandly to everyone in the clearing, “are the Amis de l’ABC, or the Amis de l’Abaissé. We are a revolutionary society devoted to the people and the overthrowing of the monarchy and government.” Enjolras looks expectantly at Grantaire, obviously thinking that Grantaire would respond somehow, but Grantaire is shocked into silence. 

“We are hoping to encourage the people to rise, and they will! They will see that there is another way to live apart from under this tyranny!” Enjolras’ eyes blaze, his fist clench, and he completely believes what he is saying. In that moment, Grantaire pities him and worships him for his belief. This little, tiny human take over a country run by snakes and dragons? Impossible, even with the people’s help. The dragons of the Air Corps and the Royal Guard would slaughter them without a slip in their stride.

Grantaire tells him so, “The Royal Guard and the dragons of the Air Corps will slaughter you if you try.” The Amis shuffle uneasily, and Combeferre flinches, making Éponine stir violently under his wing. Grantaire wraps his tail around her, and she stills, becoming peaceful once more.

“Ah,” starts Enjolras, with a crafty look about him, “I have ascertained the loyalties of no fewer than twenty dragons, Captains and crews.” Grantaire is grudgingly impressed, he has obviously worked hard on this “revolution”. 

“But still,” Grantaire persists, “even with their support you shall never reach the king. He is too well protected.”

“Then what do you suppose we do?” The tension in the clearing rises, Enjolras is becoming angry, it is Grantaire’s guess that nobody has ever called his ideals into question, not the man with the golden voice full of passion. 

Jehan murmurs to him, “Be careful, Grantaire, I would much more like to not to have to rip him in half if he hurts you,” Grantaire frowns minutely.

“Well, Grantaire? What do you suggest?” Enjolras demands.

Grantaire shrugs, displacing Bahorel and Feuilly for a second, “Do nothing.” The tension turns the atmosphere to shards of glass, digging in to everyone present. The Amis are watching the exchange as one might a game of catch, the ball of words being thrown back and forth between the Captain and dragon. 

“Do nothing?” Enjolras’ voice is dangerously calm, “Do nothing? Doing nothing is for braggarts and cowards, which we are not.” Grantaire remains unmoved, he has been called a lot worse for a lot less, but it still hurts.

“This quest is noble, but unreasonable in its implementation and implications,” says Grantaire steadily, “for example, let us say you do succeed,” Enjolras nods sharply, chin jutting, “who shall rule the country? You are barely a babe out of the cradle, a school boy, what makes you think you would not turn into those you hated in a blink of an eye, or in the turn of the years?” 

“Good poetry,” whispers Jehan, almost to himself. Everyone else is silent, staring at Enjolras, waiting for his answer.

“One of the reasons I accepted your Captaincy,” You didn't, you didn't, echoes in Grantaire’s mind sorrowfully, and Jehan stiffens, but Enjolras continues, brow creasing, “is that you have leadership skills, you were _his_ dragon, you must have gained some leadership skills.” He cannot even say Napoleon’s name, thinks Grantaire with a burst of sour humour, and he licks a claw to distract himself.

“I do have some leadership skills, that is true,” Grantaire licks his paw once more thoughtfully, “but Napoleon was the leader of the partnership, to him, I was mostly a beast of burden and of war.” 

Cosette sucks in a horrified breath, and Bahorel cracks his knuckles. Jehan hums to him comfortingly and Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras look disgusted. 

“It was not a popular opinion, no, but that is what it is like at court. Dragons are no better than talking horses there.”

“But then shouldn't you want to change it?” Says Enjolras disbelievingly, and Grantaire is painfully amused again. He might be the only thing that Enjolras does not believe in. 

“Nothing changes, nothing ever will.” Grantaire murmurs in reply, eyes very far away. 

Enjolras starts to fume, voice rising on every word, “How can you say that?! You are the most apathetic, incapable, and cynical being I have ever known!” Grantaire noticeably flinches.

Jehan growls, “That was not necessary, Enjolras.” His hackles are raising protectively, glinting in the setting moon’s rays.

“Enjolras,” rebukes Combeferre quietly, and Feuilly echoes him.

Enjolras takes a shaky breath, trying to keep a firm control on himself.

Grantaire begins to think while all this is happening, thinking about his ties within the group, to Jehan, to Courfeyrac, to Éponine, the rest of them, and most strongly; Enjolras.

His Captain, with the fiery words and unforgiving barbs and countenance. 

His Captain, with the silver tongue and golden voice. 

Grantaire begins to second-guess himself, questioning his ideals like he never has before. But he still stands by them. But, but, he has ties strongly to this group, and when his thinks of life without Enjolras, and Grantaire internally cringes in absolute horror and grief. This cause of theirs is ridiculous, that has not changed, he does not believe, nor ever will. But, he believes in Enjolras like he has never believed in anyone before.

This revelation makes Grantaire reel, rocking slightly on his haunches, going unnoticed, for everyone is still chastising Enjolras. He looks round this ragtag group, he has known them for a bare fortnight, save for Courfeyrac and Jehan. But would he die for them? Yes, Grantaire thinks he would, in a heartbeat. They are good and wise and iron willed. Grantaire wonders if this is what having a family feels like. He feels completed, he never did with Napoleon, nor with the grief eating a hole in his chest, but Grantaire feels as if he can finally let this grief go. Napoleon’s ghost can no longer trouble him.

Grantaire breaths deep, a weight off his shoulders and a band around his chest removed. No, he does not believe in the Cause, but he supposes he will fight anyways.

Under the clamour he says, “I said I did not _believe,_ not that I would not _help.”_

“What?” Enjolras jerks around, somehow hearing him, hair flaring around his body, an unreadable look in his eyes. “Be quiet, everyone, listen to Grantaire.” 

They quiet, turning with wide eyes to Grantaire. Jehan looks measuredly at him, as if he knows what Grantaire is going to say, “I said: I did not believe in this ’Cause’, but I would help nonetheless.” Grantaire keeps eye contact with Enjolras, and the clearing seems to fizzle out from around them, leaving only them in empty space.

“But why?” Breaths Enjolras, something like hope in his eyes.

“Because,” Grantaire pauses, he does not want to reveal the revelation to the one who held a key part in it, “I believe, if anyone could do it, it would be you.”

Enjolras looks unsteady, “Thank you.” He whispers. Then, a wall slams down behind Enjolras’ eyes, rendering him marble once more.

“Thank you.” He says professionally, and the clearing melts back into place.

“Yeah!” Bahorel whoops, hitting him on one shoulder, “I knew you'd come through!” The Amis crowd around him, welcoming him to the society. Combeferre stands back, a small smile on his face, talking in low tones to Enjolras, who looks like he is reassessing Grantaire once more, but with an almost soft expression on his marble face.

As Grantaire turns to gaze at Enjolras, the look disappears, replaced with the almost marble façade. Grantaire sighs, and then feels a back spine arch against the membrane of his wing. He lifts it, folding it to the curve of his body once more, surprising the Amis, and making Bossuet fall over.

“Sorry,” he apologises, with a small grin on his face.

Éponine still looks a little sleepy, but she is quickly losing that haze, yawning to show a row of sharp, pointed teeth. “Good morning, Éponine,” Grantaire says, glancing at the rapidly lightening sky, the stars disappearing one by one.

Jehan peers over from his other side, and rumbles, “How are you on this day, little one?” 

“Fine, thank you Jehan!” She flaps her wings, bouncing through the Amis, who laugh at her antics.

“Combeferre!” She squeaks joyously, fluttering her wings as she runs towards him, he goes down on one knee to catch her, grinning. In one extra long bounce, her wings fall into a rhythm, lifting her off the ground. 

Éponine squeals, “What’s happening?” 

Grantaire laughs happily, his griefs lost for a moment, “You are flying, Éponine, you are flying!” 

Combeferre laughs too, seemingly overcome by joy, indeed, your dragon’s first flight is something to be remembered. “Well done Éponine!” 

The Amis start to clap enthusiastically, as she finds her wings, Jehan and Courfeyrac glancing at each over, beaming from ear to ear, obviously remembering this time in their lives. Grantaire’s mood bitters slightly at this, but he shoves it violently aside. He should be happy, he _is_ happy for them, and if he wishes to remain that way he has to ignore his personal feelings.

Unsurprisingly, Éponine is ungainly in the air, and when she reaches Combeferre she lands directly on top of him, making him collapse into a laughing pile, with Enjolras gazing with one of those small smiles on his face. He turns to Grantaire, and their eyes meet. They hold the contact for a moment, before breaking it, hurriedly looking at Combeferre and Éponine, who are still on the ground.

“Did you see me? Did you see me? I flew, Combeferre!” She demands excitedly.

“Yes, yes, I did, Éponine! You were brilliant!” Combeferre gets up, red in the face, grinning almost manically with joy and the Amis move to their side, congratulating them, asking questions about how long now is it before she can be flown with passengers. 

“It won't be long before my flames now, will it?” Asks Éponine, and it makes Cosette, Musichetta, and most surprisingly, Bahorel coo at her.

“Not long at all!” Calls Grantaire, Éponine flares her wings in excitement. 

“Come, everyone! I do believe this promotes a celebration!” Says Bossuet, smiling happily. 

“Yes!” Chimes in Joly and everyone nods a rapid affirmation. They move out of the clearing, the sun now, instead of the moon lighting their way. 

Jehan dances to his feet, following Courfeyrac, who was swept along with the Amis, he turns to look at Grantaire, “Coming?” He asks softly.

“In a minute,” Grantaire replies, “I need to gather myself.”

“Of course.” Jehan follows the rest, not before glancing back at him anxiously. Grantaire nods him on reassuringly. 

Grantaire sighs, and stretches his front paws, claws making lines in the grass. He stills when he notices he is not alone in the clearing. Enjolras is still there, gazing at him.

“Enjolras?” Asks Grantaire, cocking his head.

“I-” he stops and collects himself, “I just wanted to say thank you. Really. For your help.”

“It is no problem. You are my Captain, whether you view me as your dragon or not.” 

Enjolras’ expression goes leaden, in the way Grantaire has noticed that it does when he does not know how to deal with an emotion. The Captain nods jerkily and leaves the clearing.

It is silent, the birdsong only just about to begin. Grantaire sighs again, rests his head on his paws, and makes himself ready to join the festivities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT TIME IS IT?
> 
> TIME OF OUR LIVES,
> 
> PROCRASTINATION!!!
> 
> srsly though, I should be studying, ugh....   
> :D but who needs education when you have fanfiction? ;)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lil bit of fluff...

“Ha!” Laughs Courfeyrac, skipping out of the mess hall with his breakfast, “Your face, Combeferre!” The bespectacled man is rubbing liquid off his face with an annoyed air, Éponine rolling around with the giggles, still full of adrenaline from her first flight earlier that morning. 

“It is not funny, Courfeyrac.” Grumbles Combeferre, still rubbing at his glasses, and when he fails to get the viscous liquid off, he asks, “What did you put in this water?”

“Beeswax!” Courfeyrac jumps out the way as Combeferre lunges for him, chasing him around the place in a very un-Combeferrian fashion. Everybody is still in high spirits, partly because of Éponine, partly because of Grantaire’s admission to the Amis de l’ABC. The dragon himself is lying on his side, watching all of this with amusement clear in his expression, half a second away from chuckling himself.

“Courfeyrac!” Chastises Jehan from Grantaire’s side, his eyes narrowed against the rising sunbeams. 

“What?” Courfeyrac calls innocently from where he is being chased by Combeferre, as if he was sitting down doing absolutely nothing. Jehan sighs indulgently, grin threatening at the corners of his mouth.

“You are cleaning my glasses, _now!”_ Combeferre leaps and tackles Courfeyrac to the ground, where he moans theatrically in pretend pain, face down on the ground. 

“You’ve killed me, Combeferre! How does it feel to have a friend’s death on your conscience?” Courfeyrac groans from the floor, face still squished in the grass.

“Always one for the overdramatics, Courfeyrac.” Smiles Combeferre as he clambers to his feet, “But seriously, wash my glasses.”

“Fine.” He huffs.

“Well, that was entertaining,” says Grantaire amusedly as Combeferre dusts himself off, “could you do it again?” 

“Yes!” Shouts Bahorel, who apparently does not have a quieter voice, “Have at it again!” 

“What if they get hurt?” fusses Joly, fiddling with his medical kit.

“They will not, do not worry, Joly.” Bossuet replies comfortingly, “They are, despite what they seem, grown men.” Joly calms a little, and Grantaire stretches a wing to rid it of the kinks absentmindedly. He has already had breakfast, an entire cow, a light one for someone as large as Grantaire, and he still feels a little hunger, but he ignores it.

“I shall not entertain you in that manner again, Bahorel,” Combeferre sniffs primly, goes to sit beside Enjolras, who is watching the proceedings with a mirthful look on his face, profile outlined in gold, “However,” he starts, “I would be more inclined to talk about moths if you so wished.”

“No! Not the moths again!” Courfeyrac jumps up, and rushes to Jehan’s side, hiding under his wing, which the dark blue dragon lifts obligingly, chuckling. Éponine giggles again, curling up beside Combeferre, chewing on a bone. 

Cosette and Marius seem to be lost in each others’ eyes, and do not register the merriment seeping its’ way through the group. They are ridiculously adorable, Grantaire snorts.

“Philistines. All of you.” Combeferre sniffs again, and Enjolras actually laughs, the sound drawing Grantaire’s attention, making him smile involuntarily as well, teeth and all.

“I like moths, Combeferre, come and talk to me!” Feuilly beckons to the other man, a small smile on his face. Combeferre gets up readily, walking over towards Feuilly, while Enjolras watches the ginger man with slightly narrowed eyes. 

“Something the matter, Enjolras?” Asks Grantaire, examining his expression carefully.

Enjolras snaps round to look at him, “Nothing at all, Grantaire,” and his voice is almost curt.

Grantaire turns away with an inaudible puff of air, watching the antics of the Amis to try and recover his lighter mood, his wings itching to be properly exercised. Not knowing what to do with this new found energy, he scratches his claws into the dust, scoring lines through it.

“What is on your mind?” Jehan looks at him with a soft expression, head resting on blue-black paws.

Grantaire shakes his head, “Restless, that is all, Jehan.”

“Ah, the curse of movement,” Jehan extends himself lazily, back vertebrae clicking, “I am still tired from the mission and last night, how can you be so energetic? I envy it of you.”

“Just luck of the draw, dear Jehan, I suppose.” He lifts one leg to scratch at the back of his head for something to do.

“More luck than me.” He lets himself flop into Grantaire, pushing him over with a laugh. 

“Oomph!” Grantaire exhales in a long gasp of surprise, a dull boom echoing when he hits the ground. He is silent for a second in shock, but then begins to guffaw, sides hurting from the force of his laughter. 

“Bet you were not expecting that!” Says Jehan victoriously, eyes twinkling as he puts a foot down onto Grantaire’s shoulder, like he is a prize kill.

“And you this!” Grantaire heaves himself to his feet, throwing Jehan as gently as he can to the ground. The look of shock on the blue dragon’s face was comical, and then it folded into merriment as Grantaire pinned him down. Grantaire sticks his tongue out at Jehan like a hatchling.

A few early risers gape at Grantaire and Jehan tossing each other around, but eventually shake their heads in exasperation before skirting them to get to the mess hall. 

“I concede! I concede!” Wails Jehan, grinning.

“I hope you learned your lesson,” growls Grantaire playfully before letting him up and settling back down to his previous position, panting slightly. Flying with a crew was one thing, but lifting a fully grown dragon was quite another. 

The Amis are all laughing, clutching their bellies, the obvious exceptions being Combeferre, who is smiling quietly, Enjolras, who is trying to keep his face straight and stone like, and Joly, who is wringing his hands, wailing, “They could get any number of injuries or diseases! _Why does no-one care?!”_

“We are fine, Joly, calm yourself,” instructs Grantaire with good humour, but the medic still wrings his hands until Bossuet stops laughing for a long enough time to comfort him once again.

Suddenly, Enjolras’ expression chills exponentially, Combeferre looks wary and Éponine creeps to her Captain’s side, obviously trying very hard not to be noticed. Even Marius and Cosette are jerked out of their love-haze. As soon as the good humour had come, it had vanished with the breeze, even Bahorel becoming serious.

Grantaire turns round to the edge of the clearing for the mess hall alertly. 

Javert was standing there, straight as and as proud as an oak tree, with the menacing hulk of Bevis behind him.

“Good to know you have not lost your touch, Grantaire.” The Admiral says in a brusque manner.

“What?” Grantaire replies rather stupidly.

Javert sniffs contemptuously, “What you did with that Fleur-de-Nuit beside you. Putting it in his place.” Bevis glares at Jehan from behind Javert, who glares back, but ever so slightly shrinks back into Grantaire. 

Courfeyrac jumps to his feet, white with anger, but Grantaire beats him to it, “ _His_ name is Jehan, Javert. Not _it._ You are not in court now, watch how you speak to dragons here. Also,” Grantaire continues while Javert stares at him, completely amazed at his gall, “I was play-fighting with Jehan, not punishing him.”

Bevis glowers aggressively at Grantaire who just stares back, completely unmoved. Recovering himself, Javert says with distaste, “What ever it maybe, it has to leave. Now. I need to talk to you and that brat of a Captain of yours.”

Grantaire snarls, “Do not call him that.”

“Watch yourself, Grantaire.” Breathes Jehan into his ear, regarding him worriedly. Grantaire responds with a curt nod. 

“Very well.” Says Grantaire, claws tapping the ground, “Get on with it, Admiral.” He almost jumps when he feels a hand on his side, he glances down quickly to see Enjolras standing beside him, as close as Courfeyrac is standing to Jehan, with all the Amis behind him, excluding Combeferre, who is trying to manoeuvre Éponine in the most discrete way out of the situation.

“I said alone, Grantaire. The Fleur-de-Nuit and its’ Captain must leave. Including your crew.” Bevis clacks his jaws together to add emphasis to the end of Javert’s sentence. Courfeyrac now stands beside Jehan, the usual good humour gone from his face to leave hard, cold rage.

Jehan moves to his feet, albeit extremely reluctantly, Courfeyrac following, shooting glares of hatred to Javert and Bevis. The Amis do not leave, they stand stubbornly behind Enjolras, Marius not leaving Cosette’s side. 

“I said: leave!” Roars Javert, a black leather whip clutched in his hands in a white-knuckled grip. “Now!” He says at top volume.

Bahorel opens his mouth to says something insolently, but Grantaire turns and murmurs to them, “You should probably go.” Enjolras looks more angered now.

“Do you not want us here?” Asks Musichetta disbelievingly.

“Of course I do,” says Grantaire hurriedly, “but he could have you court-martialed, or even executed for disobeying him, and I could not stop him. Nobody else save from the king could, and he trusts Javert’s judgement, and shares the same mindset.”

“But-” starts Enjolras, in a rage, eyes hard.

“Now is not the time, Enjolras, debate this with me if you must later. Time is running short. Go!” He directs to the Amis, who trudge out of the clearing glancing back at Javert distrustfully. Grantaire sighs. One less thing to worry about. From the corner of his eye, he sees Combeferre darting into the mess hall, Éponine in his arms, and Grantaire is relieved that they are out of the firing line, so to speak.

“Well?” Asks Enjolras from between gritted teeth, “What is this?”

Javert takes his time answering, making Grantaire grow evermore tense, until he responds with, “The king commands you to his palace before the month is out. If I were you, I would leave sooner, rather than later.” The Admiral’s eyes dance malevolently between Grantaire and Enjolras, whose face Grantaire can feel turning red with temper.

“Calm, Enjolras.” Says Grantaire from the side of his mouth, “You will be giving him what he wants if you lose yourself to anger.” The blond man draws a shaky breath, obviously trying to quiet his passion. Javert looks expectantly at him.

“What of the Spanish incursion, Javert?” Grantaire speaks measuredly, but he really just wants to rip Javert’s head off and be done with it. “What of the Spanish’s accusations of attack on their Armada?” 

“They are true.” Javert shrugs flippantly, examining his fingernails.

Enjolras swells with fury again, “What about their statement about all the attacking dragons and crews and Captains being dead? What of them?”

“They are true as well.”

“What?!” Enjolras growls, “They are dead? How can you not care?” 

“Watch yourself, Enjolras.” Mutters Grantaire, echoing Jehan. 

But Enjolras continues, uncaring, “You sent them knowing they would die! It was a suicide mission and you knew it! It was senseless violence, senseless death, and you should be ashamed to call yourself an Admiral!” Grantaire is extraordinarily surprised to hear his own words coming from Enjolras’ mouth, he gazes at Enjolras in astonishment.

Javert straightens, and his eyes fill with fire, “What, boy?” Bevis snarls. Grantaire glowers back, curling his lip, showing sharp teeth. “You are not fit to call yourself a Captain of France! They were threatening us, and now France has to pay the price!” 

“I was looking out for France! I stopped more of her Captains and dragons dying! It is you who does not care about this country!”

Javert draws himself up dangerously, glaring with imperious loathing at Enjolras, “I could have you put to death, boy,” Grantaire bares his teeth agressively, “so I watch your mouth if I were you.” He spins, cloak flapping, striding past Bevis.

“Do not disappoint the king, or speak to him thusly, or he will not be so lenient with you. I bid you fair weather.” The Admiral’s voice is tight with hatred. Bevis snarls in parting at Grantaire, who responds in kind. 

As they leave view, Enjolras almost shrieks with rage, throwing his hands in the air, storming off in the direction of the mess hall in search of Combeferre.

Grantaire looks on, feeling much more tired than he did ten minutes ago.

***

Grantaire wakes with a start, before groaning and shutting his eyes against the hot noon sun. He has slept far too long, and now the entire day is wasted. His clearing is full of the summer breeze, in a delicate contrast to the sun warming the darkest green scales upon his back. 

Lurching to his feet, Grantaire stretches, sighing with the pleasure-pain that came with it. He yawns wide and settles to groom himself. 

“Ahem.” A delicate clearing of a throat startles him while washing the last wing membrane. Grantaire looks up, and Enjolras is standing near him.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire rumbles, slightly confused. Enjolras usually never visits without an entourage made up of the Amis.

“Ah, yes, I am here to tell you we will be leaving in two days for the palace.” The last word is ground out from between clenched teeth, “Do we have to go?” The Captain asks petulantly, almost childishly. 

“Yes, Enjolras, we do. The king can exert more power and influence than me, making it deadly to disobey his wishes.”

“He is still a coward and a thief of the people.” Enjolras sighs and turns his face slightly away from Grantaire.

“But he is a coward and thief with enormous amounts of power, Enjolras. The only reason I can speak up to Javert is that I once ranked higher than him in the military chain. Old habits for him die hard.”

“I suppose that is true,” Enjolras grumbles, “he’s got a stick inserted so far up his arse I am surprised it does not come out of his mouth.” This is so out of character, so not Enjolras, that Grantaire is speechless for a moment, jaws hanging open. But then the dragon laughs, filling the clearing. Enjolras smiles, too, although Grantaire does not see it because his head is thrown back in mirth.

Steading his breathing, Grantaire gets to his feet, “Thank you Enjolras for that captivating image, and they information, but I wish to fly now.” It is true, the itch that bothered him this morning is making itself known once more. Grantaire needs to _move._

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth for a second or two, before blurting out in a rush, “CanIflywithyou?” 

Grantaire stills, “Excuse me?” 

Taking a deep breath, Enjolras repeats, “Can I fly with you?”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras, astounded. He regains his composure, “I should think so,” 

The Captain nods curtly, and Grantaire drops one shoulder so he can scramble to his place on Grantaire’s back.

He readies himself for takeoff, but then pauses, debating whether he should say his next words, but then he says softly determinedly not looking at Enjolras, “You are the best Captain I have ever known, no matter what Javert says.” 

Enjolras’ reply, if there was any such thing, is lost in the howling of the wind.

As Grantaire flies in the sky with Enjolras on his back, peaceful for once, Grantaire muses that something between them has definitely changed. For the better or the worse, he cannot yet say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... AT THE START MUAHAHAHAHA
> 
> anyways I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I churned it out in about two hours, so there might be some stupid mistakes :) 
> 
> ALSO IM PERFORMING IN AS YOU LIKE IT TOMORROW IM SO NERVOUS I COULD SCREAM I SHOULD REALLY BE LOOKING OVER MY LINES T_T
> 
> See ya soon, snowflakes!!!!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE I DO HAVE EXCUSES IF NEEDS BE

“Enjolras, will you stop fidgeting?” Asks Grantaire with considerable irritation, his body swinging slightly in the air as he tries to remain balanced, a short splash of sunlight from the overcast sky warming him momentarily, “I am hopeful that we will not arrive at the palace of the king in a complete heap, although you seem determined otherwise.”

Upon Grantaire’s back, Enjolras huffs, leaning back on on of his spikes, “I just cannot believe that I have to visit the _king,_ he is the height of everything I hate.”

Grantaire sighs exasperatedly, “Well, just try not to let the king how openly and publicly you hate him,” Enjolras just grumbles, not quite dignifying the words with an answer. “Enjolras,” Grantaire looks back at him briefly, “I am perfectly serious. The king will kill you without a second glance, my Captain or not, and I will not be able to stop him, and all your planning for this ’revolution’,” the quotation marks are audible, “will be for naught. Pay heed.” Enjolras does not bother to even make a noise in response.

Grantaire has been, rather vexingly for Enjolras, labouring to convince him to put on a civil front for the king, making persuasive arguments and battling him in the frequent debates they often seem to find themselves in. But, their debates no longer have the harsh, judging tone that Enjolras himself once took with Grantaire, but a more friendly one, an ease that was not there before. Indeed, Grantaire would be lying to himself, and anyone who cared enough to ask, if he said he was not deliriously happy with this new development.

They both sink into their respective thoughts until the palace comes into view.

It is massive, a palace built for dragons and their Captains, and of course, the king. It has tall, tall spiral towers arching gracefully to the clouds, with gigantic stained glass windows depicting innumerable battles lost and won on dragonback. The courtyard outside is enormous, even now dozens of dragons move about inside, and it is not yet full. At the entrance is a mahogany door, so big that Grantaire could stand on his hind legs and walk through it without his head brushing the top. The dragon stables are around the back, although high-ranking dragons and Captains get there own adjoining chambers inside, the barracks are mainly for the Guard that defends the king. Its’ gardens are every hue of the rainbow, and even from here, Grantaire can smell their heavenly scent.

He thinks he should feel something, a pang of homesickness maybe, it was his home for many years, he knows it like the cracks in his claws, but he feels nothing but slight awe because of its’ opulent grandeur.

“It--it is colossal,” breathes Enjolras, laying one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder for stability, who is amused to see Enjolras nearly speechless. The Captain recovers himself quickly, “Like my hatred for the bourgeois.” Is time, Grantaire actually laughs, the phrase is just so _Enjolras._

“What?” Inquires Enjolras, his voice has his usual commanding veneer. 

“Nothing, nothing,” chuckles Grantaire, speeding up the flapping of his wings. He can see people and dragons begin to spot them and hurrying about like so many ants.

“It obviously is not nothing if it is making you laugh.” States Enjolras with curiosity staining his tone.

“The line about the bourgeois, Enjolras, it was so _you_ that it entertained me no end.”

“My hatred for the rich is nothing to be scoffed at, Grantaire!” Says Enjolras sharply, and even though Grantaire cannot see him, he can imagine Enjolras folding his arms and glaring at the back of his head coldly, his spine ramrod straight.

“Of course, Enjolras, peace.” Placates Grantaire amusedly, losing height to land into the palace’s courtyard, where people are hurriedly getting out of the way.

“I should think so too.” Says Enjolras, sounding like he is in a bit of a snit. 

“Brace yourself,” Grantaire prepares to land, pushing his legs out to catch himself, rearing back in the air to slow himself down. He lands with a thunk that echoes across the silent courtyard. For a few seconds, everybody stares at them, them they hurriedly avoid eye contact and bow low to the ground, from the eldest man to the youngest hatchling. 

Enjolras stiffens, but thankfully holds his tongue. 

Grantaire acknowledges their respect with a dip of his head, flagstones shifting underneath his feet. The silence is about to get awkward when a courtier rushes forward and bows once more, “Greetings,” he says, “welcome to the court of King Burgess. The king himself is out on a hunting trip at the moment with his dragon Couronne,” Enjolras exhales harshly at the dragon’s name, and the entire courtyard flinches. Enjolras immediately quiets, amazed at the response, and the courtier continues warily, “but I am sure he will be back within the day, my lord.” 

“’My lord’ will not be necessary,” says Enjolras calmly, “Captain Enjolras will do.” The watching drags and people draw a breath, Grantaire wonders if anybody in the palace has ever refused that title. Grantaire sees a young maid drop her load of clean clothes in surprise, and then a dragon knight backhands her fiercely. Nobody looks around, as if this was commonplace, as the young girl, she cannot be more than sixteen, clutches at her face and begins to weep softly. 

Grantaire is appalled, this did not happen when Napoleon was in charge, or at least it did not happen in public. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, gesturing to the maid with one claw. A few dragons send him a look as if to say _know your place!_ Grantaire ignores them. Enjolras slides off his back, brushing off the shocked looks he gets from everyone, pushing his way to the maid, and offering her his hand to get up.

She takes it with a small smile, and everyone watches as Enjolras hands her the clothes from the floor and mutters something to her. The young girl’s shy smile grows and she scurries away. Enjolras makes his way back to Grantaire, leaning on his shoulder with such ease that even Grantaire is rather astonished. 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, waiting for the courtier to continue, “Well?” 

“Ah-I... Ahem- yes- I will show you to your chambers.” The poor courtier is flustered, he obviously had no instruction for what to do if this happened, the king not thinking that Grantaire’s new Captain would be someone like Enjolras. Grantaire feels some second-hand embarrassment for the courtier.

“The chambers inside are not necessary either, we can use the barracks.” Enjolras says, and the courtier goes even more red in the face and begins to splutter. Grantaire wishes that Enjolras was not so righteous, he knows that the dragon chambers have soft surfaces to rest on, a balm to his aching wing muscles and tired eyes. But he does not speak out against Enjolras, he does not dare, not in this court. Dragons here are like children, to be seen and look impressive, not to be heard other than a battle roar. 

“The king insists!” Says the courtier, voice rising on every word, his hands wringing together in distress. 

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire under his breath, twisting his head around to talk to him, “you will cause problems for these people if you do not go along with the king.”

Giving no sign of having heard Grantaire other than his compliance, Enjolras stands straight and barks, “Oh, very well, if the king insists.”

Relief floods the courtier’s face, “Oh, thank you my lo- Captain Enjolras.” Enjolras inclines his head. The courtyard is silent, watching the procession of Grantaire, Enjolras and the courtier. The green dragon begins to feel quite unnerved by their unblinking regard. 

The stairs to the gigantic mahogany doors are tricky, they are made solely for human use, but as the guards at the door heave it open, Grantaire navigates the steps with only a little difficulty. 

The entrance hall is magnificent, the floors are perfect white marble, with cracks of dove grey running through them, and statues of past kings, the biggest being in the centre, of King Burgess astride Couronne. The hall is dragon- sized, Grantaire easily making his way through it, knowing exactly where to put his paws. Servants move this way and that, dusting, cleaning, or just generally moving things such as food and supplies around the palace. Every time one passes, though, they drop into a bow, and do not move unless you release them from it. Every time one servant stoops before them, Enjolras’ jaw gets tighter and tighter, until Grantaire is afraid that it is going to snap, or he is going to launch into a tirade about the people, or The Cause.

Thankfully, Enjolras stoppers his mouth, politely listening to the jabbering of the courtier about the architecture of the palace, which Grantaire does not bother to listen to.

Instead, he looks around, reacquainting himself with the palace, searching for old familiar places, like the library, or the scratch on the marble he can remember making one day (he also remembers Napoleon’s punishment), or the half-broken bust that a servant knocked off its’ podium when Grantaire accidentally stepped on her toe, breaking it. Grantaire had apologised to the servant, and thought that was the end of it, but the next week he found out that the servant had been fired (he had tried to look for the servant, but Napoleon had forbade him, and Grantaire still cursed himself for obeying), or the place where he had met Courfeyrac and Jehan, when they were both completely wet behind to ears and he taught them how to saddle Jehan in the most efficient way (since then, they had not let Grantaire go). 

It is both good memories interspersed with bad, but Grantaire shoulders them still, taking the weight of the remembrances from his old home. He shuffles his wings, moving them to a more comfortable position on his back, turning his head to get a look down another corridor. At the end, he sees something that stops him short, something that was not there before. It is a huge portrait of Napoleon, the background made up of the same green as Grantaire’s scales. 

“What is this, master courtier?” Asks Grantaire, fighting to keep his voice measured and calm. Enjolras and the courtier both turn from where they were walking in front of him, Enjolras’ eyes narrowing noticeably, the courtier becoming nervous.

“It is a--a portrait commissioned by the late, great Napoleon himself,” the courtier squeaks as Grantaire flares his nostrils, feelings set a-whirl. Enjolras mutters something undoubtably rude under his breath.

“When was it put up?” Grantaire examines the painting. It is really rather good, but it hurts to see such an accurate representation of Napoleon’s face. 

“Two months after Napoleon died, master Grantaire.” The courtier fiddles with one of his medallions, and looks at the gold-infused wall beside him rather than directly at him.

After staring at they painting for a few more minutes, Enjolras snaps, “Let us move on.” Grantaire does not say anything in contradiction, so they do, the courtier starting his drivel about the palace up again. 

***

“Ahh.” Grantaire sighs as he collapses onto the soft surface of his chamber, curling up almost immediately, the paintings and the beautiful carvings on the walls not holding his interest. 

The courtier had led them to the chambers, opened the door, and said that he would collect them and take them to the king’s throne room when the king was ready and returned. The rooms are full of splendour, something that Enjolras had disdained on sight, the Captain’s room large and spacious, with a huge four poster bed big enough to fit ten people in the centre. The dragon’s room was much larger, but was mainly just taken up with a sleeping area and a window large enough for Grantaire to fly out of if needs be. Also, on a silver platter was six sides of roast beef, which Grantaire had eaten before lying down. 

He is blessedly alone, he could hear Enjolras stomping about in the room opposite, be he was not troubling Grantaire at this moment. It was not as if Grantaire minded Enjolras’ company, just that the blond man was often very loud and prone to impromptu speeches about the state of the world, and all Grantaire wanted to do is sleep. 

Shifting his tail to curl around his head, pushing his wings down to flop on the floor, Grantaire relaxes to sleep. He is just about to drift off when Enjolras throws the adjoins doors open. Grantaire starts and raises his head, blinking blearily. Enjolras looks slightly guilty. “Were you sleeping?” He asks, running a hand through his golden hair.

“I had a vague ambition in that direction, yes.” Grantaire replies, yawning toothily. 

“Oh.” Enjolras stands on the threshold, looking for once in his life, uncertain. 

“Don't just stand there, Enjolras, come in if you must.” 

Enjolras looks grateful, and strides up to Grantaire’s side, then sitting and leaning in the middle of his forelegs against his chest, much like Courfeyrac and Jehan do. 

Grantaire blinks down at him, gobsmacked. 

“Is-is this alright?” Enjolras looks up at him, once again uncertain.

“Fine, fine!” Grantaire rushes to reassure him, tucking one foreleg underneath him so he can lay his head so he can easily look at Enjolras with the least amount of effort. “What is troubling you, Enjolras? You would not have bothered me of you did not need me.” 

“The usual things, Grantaire, the usual things.” Enjolras forks a hand through his hair in distraction, looking less and less marble by the second, more human. 

“What things?” Grantaire keeps his voice at a comforting rumble, as he would with a distressed hatchling to keep then from frightening. 

“This! This whole damned palace!” Cries Enjolras, throwing his hands in the air, “The way people are treated and the way this works, the way that people flinch if I breath too harshly or shudder as I walk past!” Grantaire feels an echo of guilt, he was the one who pushed Enjolras into this, he was the one who chose him. 

“I just-I just cannot take it a second longer! I just want to leave!” The marble cracks entirely, and Enjolras buries his face in his hands. Grantaire is completely taken aback. Never has Enjolras done this, Grantaire did not even quite believe he was capable of emotions save for disdain or righteous fury. And even if he was, Grantaire would have never believed that Enjolras would show them to him. They were on civil, almost friendly terms, but still. Grantaire could not have predicted this even with a crystal orb. 

He wrenches himself back to the present, trying to speak comfortingly, “You know we cannot leave, Enjolras, King Burgess would have our heads if we did. And besides, it is only a few days. Then we will be going back home.” 

“I know, I know, I am sorry for that outburst, Grantaire.” Enjolras is trying to recover himself, trying to right the marble mask.

“Nonsense. Everybody is entitled to a breakdown every once in a while, even you, oh Fearless Leader.” Grantaire had taken to calling him by that name the Amis did, which Enjolras hated and amused the Amis no end. Enjolras shot Grantaire a shaky glare, to which Grantaire curled one corner of his mouth up in a smirk. 

“See? You are better already.” 

“Thank you Grantaire.” Under the layer of sarcasm in his voice, there is genuine gratefulness, so Grantaire just inclines his head.

“If that is all,” Grantaire starts, letting his wings relax again to the floor with a sound like cloth making Enjolras jump, “I would prefer to sleep now before our audience with the king.” Enjolras moves to get up, but Grantaire swiftly continues to stop him, “Remain here if you wish, but I think in my sleep I shall not be a good conversationalist.” 

Enjolras smiles a tiny smile, “Very well Grantaire, rest well.” He makes no move to get up, so Grantaire closes his eyes until they are shut tight, his body boneless and his breathing drifting off into a rhythm of sleep.

Being asleep, Grantaire does not see Enjolras smiling fondly at him, making sure he is asleep before doing so however. After a few minutes, Enjolras yawns and slips downwards to lay his head on the foreleg he was leaning against, jerking upwards at the involuntary twitch Grantaire gives, watching him warily for any signs of wakefulness. Seeing none, Enjolras relaxes onto Grantaire again, and closes his eyes to sleep as well, but only for a moment, Enjolras reassures himself. 

Indeed, when Grantaire wakes with the quick knocking on the door by the courtier, Enjolras is already stood beside it, talking to the courtier. His chest where Enjolras leant against it, feels more warm than they rest of his body, as if the Captain had only just got up. Grantaire dismisses this thought with a huff. 

Through the adjoining door, Grantaire sees Enjolras close the one that leads out of their chambers to the hallway. 

He turns, face grim, to Grantaire. “I am glad you are awake, Grantaire. The king expects us in twenty minutes.”

“We had better get ready, then.” Grantaire stretches with a loud clicking of joints, unfurling his wings with a catlike yawn.

Enjolras’ face is cold and hard, one of a man going into battle, not to meet a king. He stares at the door as if he can burn his way through it with only his eyes, right to the king, body as tense as a drawn bow. Grantaire looks warily at him. Enjolras takes no notice.

“Yes,” says Enjolras, “we had better be ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems liKe a bit of a jump in ther relationship, but just roll with it, I am too
> 
> aLSO THANK YOU ALL I LOVE YOU ALLL EMBRACE ME 
> 
> tHANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT *insert flamboyant bow here*


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MEETING THE KING.... OOOHHHH

Grantaire really, really, _really_ wishes that stupid courtier would shut up about everything to do with this palace. He clacks his teeth together to draw the courtier’s attention and glared down at him imperiously. Enjolras’ expression then shows some levity, and Grantaire is glad; he has been frighteningly intense ever since they left their chambers, hands loosening his cravat every once in a while, tugging it away from his throat. 

“Ah-well, yes, the palace has many-” the courtier squeaks as Grantaire bares his teeth at the poor man, but he was going to continue with his mindless drivel, and Grantaire could not stand for it. 

The courtier falls into an uneasy silence, glancing up at Grantaire as if the dragon might lean down and snap his head off. He was tempted, but dismissed the idea with good humour, killing was not the answer for such triviality. For a few moments, the only sounds in the hallway were the distant scurryings of the servants, and the heavy clomp of Grantaire’s feet against the marble floor, claws lifted in an old habit. 

“Thank God for that,” Enjolras whispers out of the side of his mouth, “I was afraid I would have to listen to more on the architecture of the palace!” His lip curls a little, “As if I care!” 

Grantaire huffs in amusement, feeling one wingtip drag along the wall, he snatches it back to the safety of his body. “As if any of the people here care, Enjolras.” 

The Captain looks up to Grantaire, “I suppose that is true.” All of a sudden, Enjolras trips over an outcropping of marble in the usually smooth floor. He puts his hands out to steady himself against the ground as he falls, but Grantaire’s tail wraps around his middle, keeping him upright. The dragon raises one brow, “Watch your step.” He releases his tail, returning it to its’ position behind his body.

“Thank you Grantaire, it did not occur to me,” Enjolras glowers at Grantaire from beneath one misplaced curl, blue eyes holding no real anger. Grantaire smiles innocently. 

“My l- Captain Enjolras! Are you alright?” Cries the courtier, dusting him off anxiously, searching for any bruises or scrapes. 

“I am fine, man!” Enjolras brushes off his concern, not without kindness of expression, just brusquely.

Even so, the courtier cowers, as if for an oncoming blow, stammering, “It’s-it’s j-just that K-king Bu-burgess hates i-it when one of his ch-chosen v-visitors hurt.” 

Enjolras’ jaw tightens at the mention of the king, all the intensity seeping back into his expression. 

“I know!” Says the courtier, brightening, his stammer vanishing, “I could have the floor maker whipped, if you prefer, Captain!” The courtier looks incredibly eager to please, and Grantaire abruptly notices how young he is. He cannot be more than nineteen, fresh-faced and unlined. Grantaire pities him brought up in this envious court. Not the lofty pity that seems to have moved some of the harsh anger from Enjolras’ expression, but a sadness felt when you see someone go through the same terrible situation you survived in.

“No, that will not be necessary.” Says Enjolras stiffly, “Carry on to the throne room.”

“Yes, Captain Enjolras.” The courtier replies obediently, ducking his head, feet once more moving against the marble.

There is only silence as they hurry towards the throne room now, Enjolras straight backed and looking for all the world as if he was a king. Grantaire is trying to collect his thoughts, this is his first time meeting the new king when he was not in a haze of grief. He is scared, and he is not afraid to admit that, this king has all the power over everyone, too many loyal, powerful allies to even think about disobeying him. He shivers and thinks of the revolution that Enjolras is planning, of the revolution _Grantaire_ is planning, and what this king must know about himself, he saw Napoleon writing a letter to the next ruler of France, and it’s first line, before Grantaire was caught spying and (sent out without the food he had came for) it said; _on the matter of Captaining the dragon Grantaire and his history._ Grantaire feels slightly nauseated. He is well within his rights to be scared, no matter how big he is. The information the king must hold is staggering. From what Grantaire saw of the letter, it was at least fifteen pages long.

“We are here,” the courtier peers anxiously up at Grantaire. He turns to the two guards, with their dragons standing like sentinels beside them. Grantaire notices that they are both bulky Grand Chevaliers, with pale under bellies and black bodies. They glare mistrustfully at Grantaire, completely ignoring Enjolras. Grantaire feels a sharp spike of vicious pleasure, it is not him they have to watch out for, but the little Captain by his side. The humans are dwarfed by their dragons, the manifestation of the courtier’s nervousness visible in his shaking hands. 

“Open the doors!” He says shrilly.

“By order of who?” Growls one of the guards, eyeing Grantaire suspiciously. 

“By-” the courtier starts, cut off by a voice coming from the throne room itself.

“By order of me, guardsman.” It is not a pleasant voice, nasal and arrogance seems to ooze from it nastily. It is the voice of the king, no doubt. Grantaire almost imperceptibly wrinkles his nostrils. One of the guardsmen’s dragons sees this and glares at him, Grantaire just ignores them. 

Enjolras remains quiet, one look determines that he is controlling himself tightly, preparing for this ordeal. Grantaire is sorry that he could not spare his Captain this. Sorry, that he could not spare himself this.

“Yes, sire!” Bark the guards in unison, snapping to an involuntary salute even though the king cannot see them. The dragons immediately bow their heads in compliance. They have been well trained, thinks Grantaire in disgust, treated no better than beasts of burden.

Enjolras is similarly effected, a touch of distaste on his face betraying his stone mask. 

“Well, are you going to stand there all day? Open the doors!” King Burgess’ voice grows sharp with impatience. The guards and their dragons hurry to obey him, the Grand Chevaliers hooking their claws into dips on the door, pushing it inwards. Grantaire sees the door for the first time, and it is beautiful. Carvings upon carvings are scratched into gold, pearl and emerald, a massive gold dragon wending its way up one side, looking down almost balefully with one ruby eye. There are forests with dragon knights, battles depicted and even elves and trolls dance in and out of the scenes. Grantaire dislikes it, despite its beauty. It is too excessive, just too much to ever have true handsomeness. Enjolras’ mouth is a thin line.

“Calm yourself, Enjolras.” Whispers Grantaire from the side of his mouth, “We have not even met the king yet.”

Enjolras grows taut as he redoubles his efforts to control his righteous anger.

Once the lavish doors are fully open, the courtier thanks the guards, and sinks into a deep walking bow. Grantaire makes a move to incline his head, his training at court catching up with him, but Enjolras hits his shoulder, hissing, “Stand straight!” And Grantaire does, forcing his stance backward from his leaning position, thoughts racing.

“You may enter,” says the nasal voice with a hint of something unreadable in it.

Grantaire walks in slowly, taking it all in. His talons click on the marble floor as he forgets to keep them up. Enjolras strides beside him, head held high and proud. Probably too proud, thinks Grantaire worriedly, nearly everyone enters this court on their knees. But at the same time, he feels pride at his Captain’s actions. The entire court is there, watching with wide, staring eyes, the ladies in frills and corsets tightened so much that it looks painful, waving a fan delicately in front of their faces. There are no older women, only young, pretty ones. The lords are dressed in the latest fashions, cravats and fancy, almost lacy clothing. The king, however, is lounging on his throne, a horrible smile curving the corners of his mouth. The king himself is a handsome fellow, with dancing emerald eyes, deep black hair and good, strong features, which more than make up for his unsightly voice. Grantaire almost shivers. There is a second throne, but no queen, it seems. Couronne is curled around the top of dais, his pale blue scales shining and gold flashes on his face twinkling as he moves his jaws, is also looking at Grantaire and Enjolras with something like wonder in his eyes. The throne room itself is ornate, decadent in a way both Captain and dragon hate. The court is lined down the walls in the massive room, observing Grantaire and Enjolras every step of the way. 

When they reach the bottom of the dais, Grantaire now eye level with the king, who says, “You may bow.” Enjolras clenches his teeth, until Grantaire looks at him beseechingly, and he finally gives and bows low to the king. Grantaire does the same, removing one foot from the ground to bow even lower. “Rise.” 

The king looks calculatingly at them for a second, before calling to his nobles, “Have you sated your curiosity?” Grantaire swings his head to face them. Not knowing what is the correct answer, they take a chance and nod yes. “Then get _out!_ roars the king, making Couronne jump, before the smaller dragon regains control of himself again. As soon as the rage came about Burgess it vanishes, leaving a spooky calm in its place.

In a flurry of muttering and bowing and scraping, they do just that hurrying from the throne room in what seems like the blink of an eye. The guards slam the doors again with an intimidating boom. Grantaire’s scales begin to itch. Enjolras appears unmoved, saved for a small muscle spasming in the corner of his jaw. Burgess observes them slowly, taking enjoyment from their discomfort, running his eyes over them to his heart’s content. Grantaire becomes tenser and tenser.

“Hello again, great Grantaire.” Purrs the king, or at least tries to, his nasal voice making it sound like it was a cat having a coughing fit, rather than purring. 

“Greetings,” replies Grantaire, staring over the king’s shoulder to some point in the wall, “it is an honour to be here, your majesty.” 

“Greetings!” Pipes up Couronne, quickly silenced by a quick, furious look from Burgess, sinking to the ground, hunching in on himself. Grantaire examines him, taking in his colouring and his size. He almost jolts when he realises that Couronne is a lightweight, a Roi-de-Vitesse, to be exact, with long, tapering wings for almost inconceivable speed. Surely not a king’s dragon. Grantaire has to hold down laughter because if the king has a lightweight, it must mean no other hatchling or elder dragon chose him. Serves him right, he thinks.

“It is an _honour,_ ” the king says this with a slight sneer in his voice, “to have you return from your self-imposed exile from all proper forms of society.” Enjolras is outraged, fists clenching behind his back.

“I am most joyful to return, sire.” Grantaire inclines his head, staring at his claws. 

“I am glad.” A pause follows, “Now let me see the reason for your flight here. Step forward, Captain.” 

Enjolras does so, chin up, “Greetings, your majesty.” It looks, to Grantaire, that the words physically pain him to say. The king does not notice.

“What is your name?” Demands the king, hand gripping the arm of his throne, peering down at the Captain.

“Captain Enjolras.” He stares straight ahead.

“Hmmm.” The king taps his fingers down, Couronne looks on warily, bringing his legs tighter to his body, a gash making itself visible, bright red on pale blue. Grantaire flinches minutely and feels nothing but sympathy for Couronne, a lightweight who probably does not have any idea why he is being punished.

“Was there not a family of nobles by the name of Enjolras?” 

Grantaire turns to Enjolras, shocked, he had no idea that Enjolras was the nobility. 

“Yes,” Enjolras glances up at Grantaire, “there was.” 

“I knew they had a son! You disappeared for a good few years, my boy.” Says the king, staring at Enjolras predatorily.

“Yes, I did. I did not wish to be found.” 

The king Burgess takes note of Grantaire’s shocked expression. He laughs unpleasantly, “I can see you did not know, Grantaire. How unfortunate. I wonder, therefore, what Enjolras does not know about you.”

Grantaire forces his expression to remain impassive and his voice monotone, “I do not own any secrets, I am an open book.” It is Enjolras’ turn to gaze up at him, questioningly. 

“Well then,” the king smiles cruelly. Grantaire shudders, his claws making a screeching sound on the marble. “He should know that you are a half-breed, a mistake if you will,” the king waves a hand while he divulges one of Grantaire’s best kept secrets. Grantaire’s breath comes in short gasps, although he tries to quiet himself.

“He should know that you are a mistake that occured between a Chinese Emerald Glass and a Celestial dragon. You see,” he says to Enjolras, as if he is sharing a secret, which he is, of course, “he got his mother’s horns,” he gestures to the flare of horns around Grantaire’s head, “but his father’s colouring,” he points to his green scales, “and of course his mother’s size, intelligence and great talent for languages. Unfortunately, he did not have the facial tendrils so could not pass for a Celestial. It was a huge scandal, if I recall Napoleon’s notes correctly, which I am sure I do. Also, I do believe your egg was juggled around, unwanted, until Napoleon graciously said he would take it and raise the hatchling to Captain it.”

Burgess smiles cruelly, “That is all you were, all you are, Grantaire, a horrible, horrible mistake. Not fit to rule, not fit to advise, not fit to _be._ Just remember the charity of your masters.” 

Burgess flicks his eyes over to Grantaire, who is desperately trying to keep his control and his mouth curves into a sneer, “You really are pathetic, aren't you? I can see Napoleon is right about you.” 

“Are you sure, Captain Enjolras, that you want to Captain such a... Demeaning beast?”

He waits on Enjolras’ answer, Grantaire hunching inwards, as if for a blow. 

Grantaire’s muzzle is almost tucked into his chest, words uncomfortably familiar, reverberating around his skull. He can feel Enjolras trembling beside him. Couronne looks on in puzzlement- he is not totally sure what is going on.

King Burgess leans back in his throne and strokes the top of Couronne’s head with one finger.

“Well, Enjolras?” Grantaire tries to direct his attention elsewhere- anywhere but Enjolras. 

“Yes. I do want to Captain such a dragon, I do, king.” Enjolras almost spits the last word out as if it is the most degrading insult he can think of.

Most unnervingly, the king just smiles, and shrugs, “I would be happy to take him off your hands if ever you wanted.”

“Thank you, majesty, for the most... Gracious offer.” Enjolras says, grinding his teeth.

Grantaire wants nothing more than to bare his teeth, snap off this vile man’s head, but he does not. Instead, he hangs his head, and says, “You see, my liege, I have no secrets at all.”

“No, you do not.” Says the king with distaste evident in his voice, along with amusement.

Grantaire does not look at Enjolras, even as the king asks insulting questions, and giving offensive, and downright vicious responses to Enjolras’ home and life.

“How the mighty have fallen!” Crowed the king when he heard about Enjolras’ house-sharing agreement with Combeferre. Enjolras’ face went white with outrage but did not speak out of turn, thankfully. Grantaire is just trying to recover himself, to stop his breathing being so ragged. He is extremely glad that the court was not here. It would have been a public punishment then. 

Grantaire barely hears the dismissal, but does see the king’s eyes glinting in triumph at Grantaire’s strained body language and drooping head. Enjolras, however, is unvanquished, even standing taller beside him. Grantaire tucks his wings tighter to his body for comfort as they depart from the throne room. 

“Wait!” Calls the king, and they turn reluctantly back, “I expect you for dinner in two hours. Do not disappoint me!” With a last lazy flick of his fingers, he shifted his attention back to Couronne. 

Grantaire leaves the throne room with his tail dragging and his head down. 

Enjolras tries to engage him in some sort of conversation, but the roaring in Grantaire’s ears makes it hard for him to focus, so as the same courtier guides them back to their chambers. 

***

Dodging around Enjolras, Grantaire stomps to the room of their chambers that has been classified his. He curls up on the soft floor forepaws over his head, claws interlocking with his horns. He closes his eyes.

Enjolras pounds on the door, “Grantaire, Grantaire! Let me in! Please,” a pleading note enters his voice, “let me come in, I want to talk with you.”

It takes a great effort for Grantaire to rumble back, “Leave me, Enjolras, I am begging you.” 

A short pause, then Enjolras replies, voice heavy, “Very well, Grantaire. But we will talk about this. Not now, then.” 

Grantaire hears his footfalls recede from the closed door. Anguish rises up in him, drowning everything out.

_You are pathetic!_ Says Napoleon’s voice.

_A mistake, a horrible, horrible mistake._ Comes King Burgess’ snide voice.

_You were my downfall!_ Shrieks his mother, or what he imagines his mother’s voice to be like. He has never met her.

_Undeserving! You are not good enough to lick the mud off my boots!_ It sounds suspiciously like Courfeyrac’s voice, full of contempt. 

_Depressing, I cannot believe I bother to stay around you!_ Now Jehan’s voice has been added to the fray, Grantaire curls tighter, whimpering.

_Half-breed!_ Feuilly snarls inside his head.

_Incapable of everything!_ Screams Enjolras.

With that, Grantaire breaks, muttering, “No, no, no, no no no no _no!_ he whimpers again, body wracked with shivers, listening to the storm rage inside his skull.

***

Grantaire’s body is still shook with the occasional shudder as they make their way to dinner, two hours later. Enjolras keeps glancing at him worriedly. 

“Are you alright?” He asks softly, putting one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, as high as he can reach on the dragon.

“Fine.” Grantaire responds, shaking off Enjolras’ hand, he cannot bear to have anyone touch him, not yet. Enjolras looks hurt, but just sighs. Grantaire feels a dark burst of humour, it seems their roles have reversed. 

The courtier rushes to the guards either side of the door to the dining hall, two more Captains with matching Grand Chevaliers. He murmurs to them for a few moments, and then they swing the doors open in much the same way that they did with the throne room’s doors. 

The courtier shouts to the room, “Presenting the dragon Grantaire, and his Captain Enjolras!” All the people turn, dragons and humans alike from the untouched feast before them, lined with tables for the humans, and an area filled with soft surfacing for the dragons, taking up over one half of the great hall, hunks of meat on huge silver platters. They all look interestedly at both of them, and Grantaire stands straighter, hopefully this afternoon’s ordeal not showing. 

“Welcome, welcome!” Says King Burgess, at the dad if the table closest to the dragon’s area, “Sit down next to me, Captain.” 

“Thank you for such an honour, my liege,” Enjolras replies doggedly, fists going white. 

“I will be as close as I can to you,” Grantaire hisses as the chatter in the hall resumes, although most of the dragons’ eyes are still on Grantaire, “this is a nest of snakes that would devour you in a heartbeat, Enjolras.”

“Thanks.” Says Enjolras lowly, gratitude seeping into his impassive voice.

“No matter,” Grantaire shrugs, feeling his black mood lift some. 

The dining hall is just as sumptuous as the throne room, a work of art, carved by the best artisans, inlaid with gold, silver and every other precious substance Grantaire could name. Grantaire still did not like it. 

Enjolras sat, bench creaking, on the king’s left hand, eyes darting around the room, determined to memorise its layout, for the ’revolution’, Grantaire supposes, and he has to stifle a misplaced chuckle. 

He nods to the other dragons, as is only polite, they are mostly lightweight, courtier dragons, serving the nobles, and ferrying them about from place to place, and they are not the most intellectual of dragons. There are two heavyweights aside from himself, one a truly massive British Regal Copper, much bigger than Grantaire himself, who nods back slowly, ancient golden eyes assessing, yellow wings shuffling. Grantaire turns to the other heavyweight to avoid the searching gaze. It leaves chills up and down his spine, raising his hackles. The other heavyweight is a Petit Chevalier, who glowers at him as he lies down as close as he can get to Enjolras, which happens to be beside Couronne. Enjolras smiles a tiny smile at him. 

“Hel-lo.” Says Couronne cautiously, glancing warily at King Burgess, who nods to him. Couronne relaxes.

“Hello, Couronne.” He says back, before turning back to watch Enjolras. He can feel Couronne’s toothy grin. 

“Let the feast begin!” Yells the king, and the hall bursts into movement, and the dragons begin to drag meat to their preferred spots.

No sooner than this, when even the hungriest human or dragon had lifted a morsel of food to their mouths, the doors are shunted open.

Grantaire’s eyes fly there of their own accord. On threshold, one of the guardsmen with their Grand Chevalier holding a struggling dragon in his jaws. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Hisses the king in a rage, and the hall quiets almost instantaneously.

“I-I am sorry, my liege but we found this dragon trying to raid the kitchens and crown jewels.” The guardsman stammers, rubbing his neck. The hall is still.

Grantaire chances a look back at Burgess, his eye are bulging in fury, a snarl on his face.

Grantaire scrutinises the tiny dragon on the Grand Chevalier’s jaws, it is a silvery blue-grey with patches of darker blue, squirming and trying to bite the much larger dragon that holds him. Grantaire’s blood runs cold. He knows this dragon, and he can feel Enjolras recognise him, too.

It is Gavroche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, but I won't be able to upload another until Monday.....UGH


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjy may be a little ooc in this chapter

Grantaire pointedly does not react, staying as still as stone, while Enjolras leaps to his feet, an exclamation on his lips. Seeing this, Grantaire flicks his tail out, catching the blond man on the leg, bringing him to his seat again. Enjolras twists round to glare at Grantaire, who shoots him a hard look in return, if Enjolras does anything rash, it could mean theirs and Gavroche’s death. 

He mouths to Enjolras, “I will deal with this. Be silent.” And the man’s lips set into a tight line. 

“This _vermin_ managed to sneak past my elite guards and get close enough to raid my palace?” Hisses the king, fists clenched on the table.

“Well, sire, we could not-“ stammers the guard, but King Burgess slams his hand on the table, knocking over a dish full of roasted veal. A servant hurries to clear it up from beneath the king’s feet, getting kicked in the process. The guardsman and his dragon flinches back, heads dipped.

“Enough excuses!” He roars, “This pitiful dragon will be made an example of,” Grantaire’s heart jumps into his throat, “and so will you!”

“’m not pitiful,” yells Gavroche, still struggling in the Grand Chevalier’s jaws, “leggo of me, an’ I’ll show you who’s pitiful!” The small Pascal’s Blue catches sight of Grantaire, and his mouth twists up into a half-smirk, half- snarl, showing points of serrated teeth. Some of the occupants of the hall see this look and chatter amongst themselves about how the great Grantaire could know a little thief like this dragon.

A ripple passes through the hall, people turning to each other and talking excitedly, albeit slightly nervously, about Gavroche’s words. Grantaire did not doubt that anyone had dared to speak to the king like that in his entire rein. He saw Enjolras try to suppress a smile. 

King Burgess’ eyes bulged and he puffs up like an angry cat, “Why, you insolent, miserable excuse for a beast, I will see you executed for your slight!” the hall quiets again, throwing glances to one another warily. They have all felt the rough side of the king’s temperament. 

“You could try!” shouts Gavroche down the length of the hall, kicking the Grand Chevalier’s jaw with claws extended, and the Chevalier hisses in pain, but still grips Gavroche’s body firmly. Grantaire is proud of Gavroche’s guts, but he will get himself killed. Grantaire needs to wait for the appropriate moment to interrupt them, in a way that will not get them all killed.

“That is enough!” the king’s face is an ugly shade of puce, not helped by the way he is spitting rage, “Take the beast to the post!” as Burgess says this, Couronne shivers by his side, sinking in on himself. The massive Regal Copper curls the end of his tail around one of Couronne’s feet, and the pale blue dragon relaxes somewhat. 

Grantaire prepares himself to intercede. Enjolras is becoming increasingly antsy as the guardsman begins to leave, giving Grantaire looks that speak of righteous fury and of a helpless anger that comes with not being able to save someone. 

As the Grand Chevalier is about to leave the hall, King Burgess glaring with satisfaction at them, Gavroche staring at Grantaire with betrayal that pricks at his heart, he says calmly to the king, but a note of pleading enters his voice without his say-so, “Please, my liege, spare this insolent young dragon. He knows not what he says; he is barely out of babyhood.” 

Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief at his intervention. The people in the hall watch this conversation with interest. The king sniffs, “Why should I, Grantaire, this beast has raided my property and played havoc with my evening. He is a thief. He deserves to die.” 

“He is young, and his Captain is too absentminded, and he has not been taught the ways of etiquette. Please, my lord, will you not spare him?” Grantaire is becoming desperate, he did not think this through. 

“No,” the king curls his lip, “I do not think I will. Guards! Take him to the post.” Gavroche starts struggling in earnest again, clawing and trying to bite. He pays no attention to Grantaire or Enjolras. 

Enjolras makes to stand, angry words threatening on his tongue, but Grantaire speaks first, lurching to his feet, urgency making his tongue trip slightly over his words, “Then, sire, let me take the blame!” the king jerks round in surprise, and Enjolras openly stares at him, eyes wide. “I am the one who failed to teach him the court manners; he came with myself and my Captain! If anyone’s life be forfeit, let it be mine!” Couronne is flabbergasted, and the king is not better. The entire hall draws in a breath as one, shocked at this display. The guardsman halts at the threshold of the door, Gavroche having stopped squirming, jaws hanging open. Grantaire feels a stir of pity, and wonders if anyone has ever cared about the little dragon.

Enjolras moves quietly to stand beside Grantaire, “I will take the blame as well. Both our lives, king, if you will not relent, are forfeit.” Although the words are monotone, an undercurrent of challenge is obvious. It is plain for anyone to see that Enjolras is making this into a personal challenge to the king himself. Grantaire feels as if he cannot breath. Enjolras’ loyalty, even if it is just for The Cause brings a lump to his throat. 

Burgess tips his head on its’ side, considering, a clinical gaze flashing over both of them as they stand before him. Grantaire’s claws scrape lines in the softness of the surface beneath them. Enjolras’ hand comes to rest on his shoulder, gripping his scales, belying his calm exterior. He looks down upon Enjolras and whispers into the uncomfortable silence of the hall, just for them, “I hope I have not just sentenced you to death, Enjolras.” The man does not reply, but his hand smooths over Grantaire’s scales comfortingly. 

He darts a glance around the other dragons, the lightweights only just grasping the gravity of the situation, the Regal Copper giving Grantaire a tiny nod of approval, and the Petit Chevalier has their head cocked on one side, studying them unreadably.

Grantaire returns his gaze to the king, who is still wordlessly considering. Grantaire thinks on his and their position, staring right back at the king. _If the king does decide to harm us,_ thinks Grantaire, _then he will have a problem trying to soothe the people, not to mention the dragons, who expect me to take over command._ he gives an almost imperceptible shudder, he does not want command again and Enjolras looks at him worriedly. Grantaire ignores him for the moment. _I still hold a vast amount of influence among the older dragons, and they would be discontented by my death, they could be a powerful enemy to Burgess. The dragon knights and Captains would be shocked too, especially since I have just selected Enjolras. I have put the king is a very difficult position and under immense political pressure, he cannot harm me or Enjolras, it would cause discontent, and his pride will not let Gavroche walk free. I suspect he will let us go, but make an example of us somehow._ Grantaire would rather not think how the king will make an example of them. 

After a few minutes of silence, the king says very reluctantly, harshly, “Very well, Grantaire, Enjolras, have your way. The little beast is free to go, I cannot lose you yet.” The word ‘yet’ hangs ominously in the air, but Grantaire just breathes a sigh of relief. The not-threat can be dealt with later. The hall shifts in discomfit. 

“Release it.” Growls the king, and the Grand Chevalier opens his mouth to let Gavroche out. By all means, the Pascal’s Blue should have sprawled across the floor, but he somehow manages to land on all fours and saunters towards Enjolras and Grantaire, as if he has not just had a very close brush with death. Gavroche reaches them, and Grantaire glances at him warningly, before edging him close to his side, twitching on wing to rest gently on the younger dragon’s back, claiming possession in front of Burgess. Enjolras’ body relaxes somewhat now that Gavroche is out of danger. 

The king glowers at them menacingly, promising something dark. 

“Take that little beast out of my sight.” He sneers at Gavroche, who sticks his tongue out at him, “And do not bother returning for the rest of the feast.” Grantaire is very happy not to. 

“You-“ Burgess points to the guardsman, who is trying to back out the doors without being noticed, he freezes, “wait outside my chambers until I return. Do not move. If you do, you will regret it.”

“Y-yes sire.” Says the guard fearfully, and he and his dragon exchange lightning-quick glances of complete terror, they back out, bowing and scraping. 

“Leave my sight!” he hisses at Grantaire, and they exit the hall too, chatter beginning as the feast continues, excitement pitching everyone’s voices higher. As he leaves, he sees one side of the Regal Copper’s lips pull up in a half-smile, which Grantaire returns shakily. 

The doors thud closed behind them, sealing off the warmth and smells of the great hall, the guards glare from their posts beside the doors.

Enjolras walks close to Grantaire, hand remaining on his shoulder, Gavroche springing on his other side in an easy, unbothered manner, his short back spines only managing to reach to half-way up the green dragon’s shoulder. 

Grantaire breaks the silence, “We did it.” 

Enjolras looks up at him, torchlight making shadows appear on his face, smiling slightly, “We did.” 

“It was nothin’,” snorts Gavroche, wings flapping in derision, “you dunno how many tricky places I’ve bin able to sneak my way out of.” 

The Captain looks annoyed at Gavroche, probably irritated that he is not more grateful, but Grantaire just feels fondness. This is a little dragon that has seemed to have to fight tooth and claw since he has hatched, yet he is not jaded. He is just glad that Gavroche’s spirit does not seem to be dampened, or that he is not cowering in a corner. 

“Well then, little Gavroche, I am glad that you did not have to ‘sneak’ your way out of this one.” 

“’m not little!” says Gavroche, puffing up, “’m big now!” 

“Of course, little one.” Chuckles Grantaire, “But you are all little to me.” He looms playfully over Gavroche to emphasize his point as they walk, and the smaller dragon takes a half-hearted swipe at his snout. Enjolras lets out an amused breath, the last of the tension easing from his body. 

“If you are quite done,” says Enjolras drily, “We have arrived at our chambers.” Grantaire smiles warmly at Enjolras, who quirks one corner of his mouth in reply.

Leaning his weight against the door, Enjolras pushes it open with an effort, allowing them access to the sumptuous rooms. Grantaire makes his way to his room, Gavroche and Enjolras following. He settles down on the softness, the day’s emotional and mental exertion beginning to catch up with him. He yawns widely, exposing his sharp teeth and red, curling tongue. 

“Now then, Gavroche,” Grantaire starts, fixing the Pascal’s Blue with a Look, while Enjolras comes to stand beside him once more, causing a jolt in Grantaire’s heart, “will you do me the honour of explaining to me what you are doing stealing from the king?”

“I felt lik’ it.” Shrugs Gavroche, seemingly completely at ease. 

“But there has to be another reason!” says Enjolras loudly and Grantaire taps the tip of one claw against the ground, hoping that Enjolras does not start in one of his tirades, he does not have the energy to spare, he believes that Enjolras does not, too. 

“But there isn’t.” replies Gavroche, rebelliousness beginning to enter his voice, hackles raising ever so slightly.

Enjolras paces, “But why would you steal something you had absolutely no need for? It seems wasteful.” Thankfully, Enjolras’ voice is not angry, but rather quizzical, “Why would you risk your life with no good reason? It is unnecessarily dangerous, especially for one as young as you.” 

Grantaire winces, this is the wrong thing to say, it would just put Gavroche more on the defensive. In his time spent with his Captain, Grantaire has discovered that he is good with The People, but not people. This had led to multiple apologies having to be given to disgruntled men by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but since they are not here now, Grantaire supposes he will have to clear this mess up.

Gavroche opens his jaws and growls, Grantaire sighs, “What Enjolras means, is that he wants you to be more careful, and not to take unnecessary risks, that is all.” Enjolras nods in agreement, not quite knowing why the blue dragon had reacted as such.

“I don’ lik’ to be bossed about,” says Gavroche, but he is mollified, “an’ I can tak’ care of myself, but thanks, I guess, for talkin’ me out of a rough time. It would’ve bin hell gettin’ out.” He shrugs, “So thanks.” 

“It is alright,” Enjolras inclines his head graciously, arms folded, expression clearing.

“Not you,” says Gavroche, his usual cheeky grin back, wings twitching merrily, “’im, he’s the one who started the talkin’.”

Grantaire laughs as Enjolras blushes red, stuttering, “Ah, yes, well, we both-“

“Stop teasing, Gavroche.” Grantaire says amusedly as Gavroche cavorts to the huge window, flicking it open with one claw. 

Grantaire becomes more alert, sitting up, the tip of his tail moving from side to side like a cat’s, “Where are you going? We did not just get you out of a deadly situation for you to throw yourself back into one.” 

“Indeed,” agrees Enjolras, “Do not.” The Captain leans against Grantaire’s shoulder, surprising Grantaire once more; he did not think Enjolras would continue to touch him when he did not need anything from him.

“Nah,” says Gavroche, “’m just leavin’ the palace behind. Don’ wanna get into more _trouble._ ” He wiggles his brows, “An’ you can’t stop me, ‘cause ‘m not nobody’s dragon. So there.”

Grantaire exchanges a look with Enjolras. They have just saved him, but this little dragon is smart, wily and able to chatter the tail off a donkey, “He has made it this far,” murmurs Grantaire uncertainly, “is it right to let him go?” 

Enjolras looks conflicted for a moment, and then decided, “We cannot stop him,” he mutters back, “and I strongly believe in free will. He is smart and can be trusted to look after himself.” 

“Is there anything you believe in _not_ strongly?” Grantaire snorts, and Enjolras is annoyed, but his face is edged with fondness.

Decision made, they turn back to the window where Gavroche is, to find it swinging gently in the night breeze, empty of all things draconian. 

“Dammit!” Curses Enjolras, running to the window, and not seeing anything other than the pools of light the torches around the palace walls left. He returns to Grantaire forking a hand through his hair in a frustrated manner. Grantaire laughs again.

“What?” Grouches Enjolras, “What could be so funny?” 

Grantaire responds, “It is just so _Gavroche._ ” Enjolras throws his hands up.

“Yes! Yes, that is the problem!” 

“We were going to let him go anyways, Enjolras, what is the matter with him leaving?” 

“I-I do not know!” Enjolras sighs and lets his eyes close and his head fall back onto Grantaire’s shoulder, his body at a right angle to the dragon’s, “Ignore me, Grantaire, I speak nonsense tonight. It is the king who has me riled, not Gavroche.”

“You never speak nonsense.” Grantaire means it to could out in a brusquely comforting way, but not the soft, fond way it does. He freezes, but Enjolras does not react to the tone. 

“Thank-you, Grantaire.” It is more sigh than words, but Grantaire is glad of it anyway. 

Ten minutes pass in a comfortable silence, until Enjolras says without moving his arms from across his eyes, “It is alright to be a half-breed. I do not think less of you for it.”

Grantaire stiffens immediately, shrinking in on his scales, dear God, they were going to have this conversation. “Thank you,” he says woodenly, “but forgive me if I do not believe you. It has mattered to everyone who has known.”

Enjolras stands quickly, startling Grantaire, and then he grabs Grantaire’s muzzle, bringing it to the level of his own face, staring with an alarming intensity into his eyes and he is too surprised to do anything but blink, “I am not like most people, and indeed, the Amis are not either. Believe me, Grantaire, whatever has been said to you, whatever has been done to you on account of this, _they_ are wrong, not you, never you. How you are born does not affect who you grow up to be, whether you be a nobleman, peasant, pure-breed, mistake or half-breed. It does not matter. If you are good, then you are good. The circumstance of your birth does not make you good or bad; it is just the start of you, nothing more, nothing less.”

Grantaire is dazed. No-one, not in his whole life, has ever said it is alright to be what he is, a mistake, a half-breed. He does not quite believe it, but something begins to break down in that little corner of his mind that shrieks at him that he is not good enough. 

He wrenches his head out of Enjolras’ grasp, bringing it high, like a startled horse, “Forgive me if I do not believe you, still.”

Enjolras shakes his head in exasperation, “I will convince you, somehow, someday, but I will convince you.” The conviction in his voice gives Grantaire a turn. 

The Captain takes his leave, “I must bid you goodnight, Grantaire. I fear we shall have to deal with our little argument with the king tomorrow.” 

He walks briskly out of the room, leaving Grantaire in a complete stupor with how quickly things had moved, he stops at the door, looking back over his shoulder, “You were brave today, and very clever. You did well.” His voice was quiet and so full of warmth that Grantaire feels he must have imagined it. He closes the door, leaving it open so a sliver of light falls across Grantaire’s face, scales shining, the moon brushing silver across the still-open window.

“Thank you, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers to the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope the story isn't too jumpy? i didnt have time to edit this... the internet here is real bad. SOMEONE HELP ME I DONT HAVE A PROPER INTERNET CONNECTION IM DYING INSIDE


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, my friends, the last chapter

They left the palace with a sigh of untensing muscles and aching heads, Grantaire’s wings flapping a steady beat over the cross-hatched countryside.

He just about hears Enjolras sigh over the wind cascading over them. “Thank God that’s over.”

“Indeed,” Grantaire agrees, still unnerved by the king’s actions. Or lack of action against them, so to speak. 

After the fateful feast and Gavroche’s interruption, the king had been polite, civil even, not stepping one toe out of court etiquette. It disturbs Grantaire deeply, for the king had been in a terrible rage at them and then it just suddenly disappeared, like spider silk in the breeze. 

There had been another banquet in their honour, King Burgess making a speech lavishing praise upon them. All the while, Enjolras and Grantaire had been shooting worried looks at each other from their allotted places. The palace had been silent under the king’s repressed anger, the young courtier who had guided them about, silenced. It made Grantaire twitchy. 

From what he knew about the king, he knows that they will not get away from the perceived slight on the king’s honour. It worries him, not for himself, but for Enjolras, who is so young and good and too full of hope and passion for his own safety. He torments himself with the thought that if he had never picked Enjolras as his Captain and had not Enjolras accepted- however partially- then he would not be in such danger, danger of Grantaire’s making. 

Grantaire expected punishment in some form from the king, be it a suicide mission, or an impossible task. No doubt the Amis would be implicated in it all somehow. It makes Grantaire feel distinctly unwell.

“Hey!” Enjolras’ hand thumps his shoulder, hard. “I can hear you thinking from here!” Enjolras leans forward from the saddle, “Do not worry so, Grantaire.” It was sound advice, but from him, it was more of an order. 

One side of Grantaire’s mouth curls up reluctantly, “It is my duty to worry, Enjolras, as it is yours to lead.” 

“It is not your duty to trouble yourself over such menial matters.” 

“Menial matters!” Grantaire turns one eye to face Enjolras, keeping his balance in the air precariously. “This is the ire of a king, Enjolras, one with many powerful and loyal followers!” 

“The people are stronger still, Grantaire, take heart.” The words are encouraging, but the tone is harsh, once more an order.

Grantaire huffs out a breath and lets the matter drop. He will not forget, though, and he is sure Enjolras will not either. He focuses on his wingbeats, arching them up so high that it must fill Enjolras’ world with a forest of green, then slamming them down with a reverberating _boom_ , making conversation impossible, as was his aim. 

Though, aside from spats like these, and debates that often stay as debates, not devolving into arguments, Grantaire’s relationship with the Captain has never been better. They work cohesively, and together, as much in tune as Jehan and Courfeyrac. 

Grantaire is whole, happy even, until he remembers that Enjolras is not really his Captain. When this feeling sweeps across him, he feels a tug inside his head where a bond would form, and sees Enjolras frown for no reason. 

Grantaire sighs, flaring his nostrils so wide, that he can imagine pallid flame flickering in their depths, and wonders whether Éponine’s first fire has been lit. True, it has been barely three weeks since they left the stables, but young dragons grow fast. Grantaire aches for the familiar comforts of it all, a place, despite his best efforts, that has become his home. 

Grantaire has never had a home before, and it is quite disorientating to realise that he has one now. He had the palace, but it could never be a home, with its’ pristine floors and its’ unlived-in feel. But the stables, with its’ scuffed cobbles, gentle breezes and rowdy mess halls is as homely as you get, being a dragon. 

Grantaire’s wings falter in their beating for half a second before he picks it up again hurriedly, feeling himself drop around ten feet suddenly. On the back of his neck, Enjolras grasps the pommel of the saddle, “What was that?” 

“Nothing at all. As you were.” Replies Grantaire curtly, and Enjolras falls quiet, in a slight rancour due to Grantaire’s tone.

Once Grantaire’s head stops reeling, he supposes that realising he has a home and friends is not the worst realisation to have.

He smiles, teeth showing, driving his wings faster, towards his home.

***

“Land us in a clearing, Grantaire! Let’s stop!” 

Grantaire grunts in acknowledgement, then angles his wings downwards through the deepening night to a clearing.

When he is a hundred feet from the ground, he lifts his wings and drops, first on to his haunches, making the ground shake, then to his forelegs for a running stop. 

Enjolras slides out of the saddle, creating a peculiar tickling sensation for Grantaire, and hits the ground with a thud, bending his knees to absorb the impact. 

He shoots Grantaire an irritated glance. “Give me some warning before you do that next time.”

Grantaire smirks, “Where would the fun be in that?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but his face is edged with fondness, and changes tack. “Can I not take off your saddle tonight, Grantaire? It’s just that I would have trouble getting it back on again in the morning.”

“It is no matter.” Grantaire shrugs his massive shoulders, “I can deal with it for one night.” Enjolras pulls his saddle bags down.

“Good.” Enjolras picks up some kindling for a fire and bunches it under his arms. Grantaire cannot help, so he lies down. The grass is wet beneath his scales, making the faceted sides shine with droplets. Enjolras is going to have a hard time starting a fire. 

“You're going to have a hard time starting a fire,” he says to Enjolras, who puffs with annoyance.

“I've got to try at least, I'll freeze otherwise.” Grantaire does not feel the cold, not like humans do, and it comes to his attention that it must be a cool, almost glacial night, for the stars are shining down from a clear sky.

Enjolras sparks a flint, and curses when it doesn't catch. A wind ruffles through the field to one side, over their camp, then to the trees on their other side. Grantaire follows the motion with his head as if it were a real, tangible thing. Enjolras shivers. 

Enjolras strikes the flint again, but the wood refuses to light. He tries again and again, and all the while the night grows colder, and Grantaire watches with concern as his hands start to redden, and the skin about to break.

As Enjolras is about to make a spark again, Grantaire rumbles, “Enough, Enjolras, stop.”

The Captain spins around, shuddering, “Wh-what do you p-pro-pose I do th-then?” In spite of shaking with chills, Enjolras still manages to interject petulance into his voice.

Grantaire considers for a few seconds, cocking his head, then decides on the most plausible solution. “You can lie against my belly, and I can cover you with one wing. It will create a tent, almost, or something like it, and conserve the heat.” 

Enjolras looks strangely indecisive, scuffing his feet against the dirt. “Perhaps...”

“Enjolras!” Snaps Grantaire, suddenly, bewilderingly incensed, “You will freeze in short order--”

“T-the wood m-m-might still light!” Objected Enjolras, hands under his armpits, breath forming smoke in the air.

“But not before dawn comes!” Grantaire sighs, but his tail still twitches back and forth like a cat’s, but continues in a gentler tone, “Please, Enjolras, spare me the worry, and yourself the frostbite.” 

Enjolras remains still for a few more seconds before he relents, “F-fine.” 

“Thank you.” Exhales Grantaire wearily.

As Enjolras settles on a patch of almost-dry grass, Grantaire comments, “Truly, it is like dealing with an errant child, Enjolrs, you seem to have no survival instincts whatsoever.”

Enjolras glowers at him, but cannot answer because his teeth are chattering. 

Grantaire lays his head down near Enjolras’ feet and extends a wing over both of them, and immediately the air becomes warmer through Grantaire’s body heat and breaths. The only sounds for a while is Enjolras’ shivers and Grantaire’s measured breathing. 

“Thank you, Grantaire, I feel much improved.” Says Enjolras out of nowhere, and like he did not complain about the at first situation at all. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and chuckles, “It is my pleasure, Enjolras.” 

He watches Enjolras root through his saddle bags, pulling out some bread and dried meat to eat. Grantaire only ate a few days ago, at the banquet, so he does not feel the need to hunt. 

About half-way through the meal, Enjolras yawns, and his eyelids droop, and a wave of inexplicable tiredness sweeps over Grantaire. 

“I think,” he murmurs, “it is time to rest. It has been a hard day’s travelling.” 

Enjolras nods sleepily, “Indeed.” He unfolds a blanket from one of the packs, then uses it as a pillow, spreading another blanket over himself. “Goodnight, Grantaire, sleep sweet.” His eyes close heavily, and his breathing rhythm changes to one of sleep.

Grantaire blinks, the casual phrase making a warmth bloom inside his chest. 

“Sleep sweeter, Enjolras.” He whispers back. 

A rustle breaks Grantaire from his dreams. He does not react, merely flares his nostrils, taking in the scents of the land. The strongest, are himself and Enjolras, obviously, and the Captain is still asleep, dead to the world. In rest, it seems that Grantaire’s tail has wrapped around Enjolras’ body, and he is curled into the touch. Grantaire can smell the scents of pine, willow, grass, dirt, sky, wind and dawn, nothing out of the ordinary. 

This, by itself, is out of the ordinary. Grantaire’s hearing is sharp, matched only by the Fleur-de-Nuits, who are adapted to night- flying. A rustle sounds again, and Grantaire tightens his tail around Enjolras protectively, removing his head from under his wing, looking around. 

The camp is still, crickets and birds singing their dawn chorus, otherwise there is nothing but silence. 

Uneasiness begins to build, making his shoulders tense. It would be so easy for the king to ambush them here, alone and unprotected, so easy for the king to blame Spanish or Russian invaders to disguise their murder. 

A stick cracks, and he whips his head around, a growl coming unbidden from between his teeth. He feels Enjolras stir beneath his wing, stretching. 

He hears a foot step, closer than the crack of the stick, and growls again, and Enjolras stops moving under his wing. A searching hand brushes his belly and grabs something nearby it. His musket.

Enjolras clambers out, musket gripped in one hand, eyes alert and clear.

Grantaire wants to snarl at him to get back under his wing because the urge to _protect, defend,_ is too strong to ignore. But Grantaire reins himself in, it would not work and would alienate Enjolras. But still, his instincts are screaming at him to protect, protect, _protect._ It was not like this with Napoleon, and it confuses him greatly. 

There is something feral in Enjolras’ bearing too, his musket in between white-knuckled hands, danger in his eyes.

A small dark shape lunges out of the woods to one side and Grantaire’s tail lifts to fight. He roars a warning. Enjolras’ lip is twisted in a snarl, clearly he thought the king would be attacking too. 

“Calm down you guys!” A decidedly not military voice says, and Grantaire pauses, confused.

“What?” Exclaims Enjolras, posture relaxing in bewilderment. 

Grantaire places the voice. “Gavroche.” He snorts, answering Enjolras’ question, tail dropping, “Do not do that again. Next time I might attack or not recognise you.” 

“Nah,” Gavroche saunters over, wings half extended cockily, “where would the fun in that be?” 

Grantaire sighs, Enjolras says edgily, still on alert due to adrenaline, “Why are you here, Gavroche?” His voice may just be on the side of too sharp, Grantaire notes. 

“Why shouldn’t I be?” 

Enjolras opens his mouth to retort, but Grantaire talks over him, “ _What_ do you want, Gavroche?” 

Gavroche’s eyes brighten, “Finally, you’re askin’ the right questions.” 

“Well?” Says Enjolras tersely. 

“I wanna come back to your stables. I wanna see what it’s like.” He examines his claws casually, but Grantaire can see the gleam of hope in his eyes. Pity wells in his heart.

“Why should we do that?” Enjolras snaps.

“Enjolras.” Rebukes Grantaire when Gavroche nearly invisibly deflates. 

Enjolras forks a hand through his curls, mussing them and grumbles incomprehensibly. 

“What do you want to see at our stables?” Asks Grantaire gently, sitting back down. 

“I dunno, I just wanna see.” Gavroche scratches the soil. 

“That is fine, but why did you ask? You could have just followed us back easily. We would not have known.”

Gavroche splays his wings more, claws digging into the soil, gazing at the ground, “ I- it seemed lik’ the proper thing to do. Imma sneak an’ a thief,'m not a stalker.” 

Grantaire’s heart melts for the young dragon, he makes the decision. “Of course you can come with us,” Gavroche grins and regains all of his confidence. “I'm sure the Amis will be happy to have you.” 

He turns to give Enjolras a stern glance, but it stops short when he sees Enjolras giving him a soft, fond look. Words dry in his mouth and he tears himself away and lifts his head and turns to Gavroche. 

“We are leaving soon, if you have anything, collect it, and be back before the sun is a claw’s width above the horizon.” 

Gavroche darts off, running like a hatching, bounding to some unknown location. 

Grantaire clears his throat, and turns back to Enjolras in time to see the fond look giving way to indecision, decided and then to nervous. 

This in turn makes Grantaire nervous. “What?” He asks, feeling his hackles rise subtly. 

With no preamble, Enjolras blurts, “CanIbeyourCaptainpleaseandcanyoubemydragon?” 

Grantaire blinks. “Pardon?” 

Enjolras takes a deep, shaky breath and composes himself, “Can I be your Captain, and can you be my dragon?” 

Grantaire is bemused, “Aren't you already?”

Enjolras huffs out a frustrated breath, “No, I mean like Jehan and Courfeyrac, or Combeferre and Éponine. Bonded.”

A fairly significant portion of Grantaire is ecstatic, wanting to fly forever and roar and show his joy to the world, but another part is just going _what_. 

While Grantaire is processing this, completely still, Enjolras’ face goes from hopeful to nervous to shut down and blank. 

“If you don't want to, then it is fine.” Enjolras’ body language plainly bespoke that it would not be fine. 

Grantaire rushes to reassure Enjolras, “Yes, yes, of course! But why?” Hope pulls his chest painfully.

Enjolras’ shoulders relax with tension he did not know he was holding. “Why wouldn't I?”

“You said yourself that I was Napoleon’s dragon, useless, reckless, a danger, and unintelligent. Why would you?” Grantaire presses, hope now clouded by his general suspicion of the request and his cynicism. 

Enjolras’ expression is dumbstruck, “I was wrong. You're incredibly intelligent, a prolific debater, brave, noble, kind, wise, certainly more patient than me--”

“Is this a joke?” Demands Grantaire, “If it is, it is cruel, Enjolras, cruel!”

“No! No, it is not a joke! I would not joke about such things!” Enjolras looks heartbroken, fiddling with his musket, eyes willing Grantaire to understand. 

Grantaire is still wary, claw tips wedged in the topsoil. “Very well. At what point did you decide this?” 

Enjolras props the gun against his leg, eyes going far away with memory while Grantaire watches. “It was when you stood up for Gavroche in the feast hall, by doing that you were standing up to the king, defending an innocent against tyranny. That was the first moment, but there were hundreds- nay, thousands others besides.” A small, very warm smile graces Enjolras’ lips, eyes glimmering hopefully.

Staring at him, puzzling out his every nuance, Grantaire decides to take a chance, hope, for the last time.

“Yes. Yes. I will be your dragon, and you my Captain, Enjolras.” Grantaire smiles, heat blossoming in his heart, euphoria clouding his pessimism. 

Enjolras lets out a giddy whoop of joy, musket overbalancing and lying forgotten upon the ground. He jumps and throws his arms around Grantaire’s neck, smile gone to a full blown grin, being lifted off the ground by Grantaire’s neck.

Grantaire laughs, carefree, “If you don't let me go, I’ll choke.” 

“Of course, of course!” Enjolras laughs too, looking happier and more his age than Grantaire has ever seen him, letting go and dropping to the ground.

When he is back on the ground, he suddenly looks awkward and Grantaire tenses, ready of rejection, for _I'm sorry, it was a joke,”_ but it is not forthcoming.

Instead, he asks; “How do we bond exactly? According to Combeferre it happened when you first touch a hatchling, but you're not a hatchling.” 

Grantaire pauses, thinking. A memory creeps to the forefront of his mind, followed by many others. He laughs loudly, “It works the same way! You touch me, a bond is formed, but not solidified!” 

“What?” Enjolras gapes.

“That is why,” Grantaire explains, “that we kept echoeing each other in thought and emotion.”

Comprehension breaks over Enjolras’ face. He groans. “We’ve been very idiotic, have we not?” 

“That we have.” Says Grantaire agreeably, shuffling his wings. “Do you want to solidify the bond. I know the words needed.” Grantaire has watched many hatchings in his time, especially when he was Napoleon’s dragon.

Enjolras looks uncharacteristically nervous.

“We do not have to if you don't want to,” says Grantaire reluctantly, an ache in his heart. 

Immediately, Enjolras’ expression hardens, “Do it.”

Grantaire is relieved. “Relax.” He coaches Enjolras, who does he best to comply, “Lift your head.” He lightly touches the tip of his muzzle to Enjolras’ brow.

He gives Enjolras a chance to back out, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The answer is immediate and reassuring, “But, what will the bond entail?” 

Grantaire understands quickly. Enjolras is an intensely private person, and he does not want to lose that. “It changes from bond to bond,” he answers honestly, “but usually it entails that we can feel the sway of each other’s emotions, not their actual thoughts, but rather the shape of them.”

Enjolras smiles a trembling smile, somewhat appeased. “Go ahead.”

Grantaire draws in a deep breath, these words are ancient passed down from generations buried deep beneath the ground, and the gravity of the situation reflects on him, and it is his chance to say them, to a Captain. To _his_ Captain.

“Ono un eka, töndt unin hugin un onu eldunarí, hars yawë, hurgin thringa un garjzla. Yawë! Varkna!”

The bond unfolds from the back of his mind, like a flower bud, stretching and reaching for Enjolras, and then meeting in the middle, jolting both of them as their minds are irrevocably linked. 

Enjolras feels nervous, scared, determined, loving, passionate and overwhelmingly happy. 

They both feel out the limits of their bond, prodding at the new space inside their heads, while they breath heavily as the aftermath of the initial connection.

Grantaire regains his breath first, “It is done.” He rumbles, an unusual gravity about him. “We are bonded.” 

Enjolras rocks back on his heels, “That was- intense.” 

“It was,” agrees Grantaire quietly, scrutinising his Captain, joy tempered by wariness. 

Enjolras suddenly looks up at Grantaire and grins, “Thank you, Grantaire! Thank you!” 

Grantaire chuckles, “I must thank you, Enjolras.” 

“My dragon,” says Enjolras, tasting the words, and Grantaire can feel his pure delight at saying them through their link, “ _my_ dragon.”

“My Captain,” Grantaire retaliates playfully.

They look at each other, grinning like idiots, euphoria bouncing between them through the link.

Gavroche comes charging back, panting, bringing them out of their reverie. 

He looks at them oddly, and then asks, “What are you idiots grinnin’ about?” 

They both start to laugh, while Gavroche squawks indignantly, “What’d I miss? What’d I miss?”

***

“Nearly there!” Calls Grantaire over his shoulder, feeling Enjolras’ acceptance through the link.

They have been learning each other, feeling out each other’s emotions and limits, minds brushing. It has been days filled with joy and energy, Grantaire flying twice as fast as usual in his exuberance, Enjolras being more relaxed and easier to laugh than normal.

Gavroche has been travelling with them, although it is more like they are travelling by themselves, he disappears for hours at a time, coming back from whatever business he had been doing by nightfall. They had been worried the first few times Gavroche had done it, but now they just accept it. They know that he’ll always come back. 

The stables appear over the hill, and contentment flies across the link, “Home,” Enjolras breathes. 

“Home.”

Grantaire angles his wings towards the courtyard, landing on his hindlegs then falling to his forelegs, the boom attracting everyone’s attention. He had given warning through the link, “Was that enough warning for you, Enjolras?” Asks Grantaire playfully.

“Plenty,” Enjolras pats his shoulder and slides to the floor. 

In a flash, the Amis appeared from the mess hall, shrieking excitedly, “Enjolras! Grantaire!” 

“Here come the children,” mutters Grantaire and Enjolras chortles, leaning back against Grantaire’s foreleg. 

The Amis surround them, talking all at once, making it impossible to here them. Just as Grantaire is about to speak to regain control, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Éponine and Combeferre come round the corner. 

“Grantaire!” Yells Jehan, sprinting over, trying not to step on the Amis swirling around their feet. Éponine following enthusiastically, and she had grown hugely in the three weeks since he has last seen her, filling out, and she will soon be big enough for a full crew.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac follow at a more sedate pace, Courfeyrac beaming from ear to ear and Combeferre wearing one of his quietly pleased smiles. 

“Where have you been?” Urges Musichetta, rapping her knuckles against one of his shoulders.

“Did you battle anyone?” 

“What was the king like?” 

“Did you meet anyone you knew?”

“Why’d it take you so long?”

“Hush, hush,” says Enjolras and when that does not work, he uses his commanding voice, annoyance mixed with fondness coming across the link, and Grantaire sends the fondness back as his reply, “be quiet!” 

They go silent out of instinct, eyes gleaming with excitement. Everybody else just shakes their heads at the Amis’ antics, used to them by now.

“You look happier,” notes Combeferre.

Grantaire and Enjolras share a look and smile, “We’re bonded.” 

Cosette squeals and Jehan bounces around, and Combeferre pulls Enjolras into a hug, slapping his back. “I knew you’d pull your head out your arse someday, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras lets out a peal of laughter, and rubs the back of his neck. “Yes, thank you, ’Ferre.” Grantaire smirks.

Éponine and Jehan press against Grantaire’s sides, “Congratulations,” says Jehan.

Éponine opens her mouth to say something but a tongue of flame burst out. Everybody stops dead for a second.

“Éponine,” gasps Combeferre, a huge smile spreading his mouth, “You breathed fire!” 

“Well done, Éponine!” Says Grantaire, “I knew you had that talent in you somewhere,” he teases lightly.

“Brilliant!” Courfeyrac jumps up and down.

As the rest of the group move to offer their congratulations, Gavroche lands silently near Grantaire.

He watches the joyful occasion with puzzled eyes until Grantaire greets him, “Hello, Gavroche, it took you a while to catch up this time.”

Enjolras spins around, scolding, “We didn't know where you were, you could've been lying in a ditch for all we knew.”

“Well ’m not.” Replies Gavroche stubbornly. 

“Um-” asks Bossuet, “Who is this?” 

“Oh,” Enjolras gestures to Gavroche, “this is Gavroche. Gavroche, this is the Amis.”

“’ello to you.” Gavroche keeps his head raised, and if he is nervous he does not show it. 

“You're the little dragon who robbed the queen,” gasps Jehan.

“I like him already,” chimes in Bahorel, cracking his knuckles.

“Hello Gavroche,” nods Combeferre. Éponine goes up to the now smaller dragon and sniffs along the line of his cheek, him standing taut as a wire.

“I'm Éponine,” says Éponine when her inspection is done, “you’ll do.” 

The Amis cheer and Gavroche blinks in shock, wings mantled, wrongfooted for once. 

“Welcome,” grins Courfeyrac, “I’m Courfeyrac... By the way, how did you end up with this nutjobs?” He gets us to them.

“Hey!” Enjolras stiffens in pique, while Grantaire just smirks. 

Gavroche points a wing at them, “They’d better tell it, they know the story better than me.” He looks reluctant as he delivers this line, as if it physically pains him to admit he cannot do something as well as another, and it is rather comical.

And so Enjolras and Grantaire tell them. 

All about the palace, the banquet, the subsequent strange lack of action, the journey home, discovering Gavroche and, finally, their bonding, although they leave the most intense parts out.

All the Amis listen, transfixed, gasping and muttering at the appropriate times. Combeferre has a look of quiet contemplation on his face at the end of the diatribe, “This is going to mean trouble, Enjolras, you know this.”

“I do.” Affirms Enjolras. He merely looks determinedly at Grantaire, “We can do it.” Grantaire sends all his courage back. Enjolras puts a hand on his shoulder companionably, supportively.

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac is spluttering at them, mouth gaping, “You--the king-- stealing-forests--what?”

Gavroche grins mischievously, “Close your mouth, you’ll get flies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *criez* first of all I wanna thank my momma and--- wait this isn't the oscars, no I WANT TO THANK ALL MY LOVELY READERS AND SUBSCRIBERS AND COMMENTERS AND KUDOSERS I LOVE YOU ALL,
> 
> Thank you truly for hanging on to see the end on this fic, and don't worry (and even if you weren't ;)) I'm not done with this universe, I'm just going take a step back for a while, so enjoy
> 
> also the strange language in the middle isnt my own, but the ancient language from the inheritance cycle :) it means "You and I, together in thought and our heart of hearts, share a bond of trust, through storm and light. Bond! Awake!" 
> 
> HAVE FUN AND RIDE UNICORNS MY SNOWFLAKES
> 
> (Plus if I've made any embarrassing typos can you tell me? Please? Pretty please?)

**Author's Note:**

> Not totally sure where I'm going with this, but oh well, I take suggestions ;)


End file.
